These thin red fingers
of white birches that grasp at
winter skies—they can’t
touch the pale sun, nor can our
cold hands reach one another.
Update: Andrew Griffin wrote a response to this one very quickly.
|Al on The Slow Lapping of Water|
|Andrew Grimes Griffi… on My Beard Grows Wild|
|wigmoredonna on In A Doorway|
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|Sophia Ball on Folding Laundry|