Image courtesy of Pixabay
The sky is coconut ice.
A robin bursts with song,
Sharp and vortexed.
How does he not freeze?
Not tumble through the stiff bareness of the elder,
Fragile feathers catching at twiggy spurs –
A small ball of puffed air and folly,
While I mince on the shined sandstone
Sprinkling a safe salty path.
Writing Whatnots 
It’s that first line. Magic. ✨💜
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Thank you so much K.♥️
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“How does he not freeze?” I’ve often wondered that, wondered what furnace breathes in those little chests, perhaps just “puffed air and folly”! Singular lines, Marion, for these wintry days.
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😊♥️
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