a-feather

Stephen XT
Feb 15, 2024

It hasn’t rained, so the grass grows slow,
As cold crows clutch the stony bath.
I spy the glassy, stagnant water, still
While winter wears thin.
Blue birds thaw in the morning’s march,
Toward spring. I fill the feeder full,
To help the smallest things, as I would
Want to be helped, left, to fend in frost.

-SXT 2024 ©

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Stephen XT

I write stuff when something begs to me to write. The goal is to write ten-thousand things before I die. I tend to be morbid, reflective and personal.