Chilling winter ash had fallen cautiously, ditching gravity,

Melting into a slick freezing river,

Drifting gases of burning oak glide in ease,

Flying free, winds huff.

 

Clouds reflecting the verge of the soggy, bedded floor,

An avalanche of cornflower blue pouring,

The ginger sun blooming the pillows of the night,

With sparks iiluminating their inner beauty.

 

Salads croak in every scurry,

The fragile chips of the late autumn,

Crackling like kettle as the fragments descend,

The bossum beams directly into the blankets interiors.