See how she braids her rivers still — doesn’t know,
doesn’t care who sees her — doesn’t come, doesn’t go,
doesn’t fear — has no need of any mirror or calendar —
and see how the sun bends low to please her,
warms the soft green moss
on her back . . .
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Calendars, Earth, Love, Mirrors, Moss, Poems, Poetry, Winter
William Michaelian 