A June Cold Perhaps it was my
chilled my bones that hot fault, that the birds,
summer morning. the birds sang.
Blameless?
When nothing touches you,
I? I who tore
it is debateable whether you
your slip?
become more sensitive, or more numb...
Forgiveness?
Tommorrow, I know not.
I cannot hope for such.
Perhaps I'll become
yet...
Disenchanted, like you.
Today I fly with
the birds at my
side.