A poem

Melting Time

Stepping
under dark and broken eaves,  

I hear
the first sweet bird-pip sound,

as down
my hot neck runs
a piercing drip,
from icicles,

reminding me
to ask, what ground
there is, 

to think
I will be here
next year,

to catch the solar system
in its round.

Not exactly what you would expect perhaps from the author of Oh, Oh Canada.

A bit of an odd duck? We like odd ducks.

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