Poetry, sunday whirl, wordle

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it was late, real late
the car broke down
so we had to walk
a long way walk

before long we were at the gate
fumbling with the latch
finally opened, all fret forgotten

carrying the both of us
we staggered homeward
passing the old tree
a sleepy owl suddenly
rose out of the dark night
his wingspan wide with wind

unaware we’re almost there
entwined at the crossroad of way past midnight
the closed space around us opens
unfastened fields that happen to flower
crocus sprouting white snow falling
first day glistening bloom

tiny threads of thoughts and thorns
a captured embrace compose
new found fevor flowering notes
hidden in his late night harmony

turning towards home
the last corner comes
beckoning as singing birds
too tired to press
suicide slumber swift
the feel of far away
the distant steps of mud stirring

sunday whirl: wordle 186

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