Crisp Poem by david e golledge
Crisp
It was a dry, crisp morning.
Jack Frost had stolen
through the night
taking with him
the warmth of the world.
Fragile, silver blades
snap sharply underfoot.
Stiff, arid lawns,
scarred and broken.
I ran out of milk
but had cornflakes anyway.
Monday, April 21, 2008
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7/27/2025 11:53:04 PM # 1.0.0
