top of page
  • Writer's pictureTweakUnique

Winter’s End (poem)

Brisk breeze eases, “Which leaves are left?” Withered White wheezes, “My life light ’til the death!”

Woodpeckers smack their faces. Squirrels start hopping around. Excitement melts in all places. As the snow seeps into the ground.

The canopied carpet is wilting away. And flowers are popping purple heads. Life rejuvenated on a warm day. Soon White leaves to beds.

Their story is traceable knowledge. Soon to pass to the sprouts. Even when education toward college… will still be seeded with doubts.

Continuation is something on which we rely, and we never truly know why. We can take comfort in trying, because recursion re-springs despite dying.

0 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


Too many to choose, of which I want to choose all

It's been a while since I posted a poem. So much irritation subdued in frustration. The creative bell rings less often when these distractions soften the blows to vibration and stifled timing. Here I

bottom of page