From the Closed Door
Nothing moves as fast
As the winter sun
Shadows on the porch
Race
Playing a game of hide
Of which there is no seek
Until night wonders
Where they've gone
Suddenly lonely
And late for a feast
The line of darkness
Eats the screws by ones
So tasty for gobbling shade
A seatless chair in and out
Ruined by wet snow
Where no one sits to explain
Why they won't fix it
Maybe in spring it thinks
“Maybe I'll be useful in spring”
Barry G. Wick
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