Would you still hear me
in the quiet woods of night
when it seems empty on top
but there’s scurrying beneath?
I like to sing about green things
like a spiraling embrace in fog.
When it gets very cold,
I imagine being suspended
like a frog in an icy pond,
longing to leap and love
in a welcoming sun.
But today, the woods are empty
and winter is upon us
(can you hear me?).
The Word Rummager 
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