Friday, December 9, 2016



Pich-black and gnarled
the oak is pawing
its mysterious filigree-fingers
all over the polka-dots
of the snow-sky.
Like knotty excrescences
on a sorceress
the pollarded apple-trees
threaten the peace of my mind.
The wagtail wags
- like a maestro with his baton
conducting his orchestra -
whilst pallid-red winter-rose
sings opera
to its audience.

But I´m leaving
for my winter quarters now!
Latching my inner shutters closely.

In here, I will hide.
Maybe sleep forever?
And only wake
if you
or somebody else
wakes me up
at the dawn of springtime.


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