The Last Robin

hints of rust-red breast
beneath willow’s branches, won’t
be seen again ’til
winter appears to release
its cold grip, come the new year.

skat@2017

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To Every Season

For Bill B:

Come summer, I long
For winter; in winter I
long once more for spring.
Come Autumn, I’m contented
But for everything dying.

Skat@2017