sunlight. Late bloom.
Winter's bite. Autumns through
another year, another day
more I give myself away

these are they, rolling hills.
Like fountains of land made still
Birch white and forest green
Foam and froth, leaves fall between

The Basin growls, the clouds are cut
Shaving off what waters raught
Sky opens and the heavens fall
Water comes to wash it all

Last updated: 2014-06-17

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