The dying days of winter air
Linger, holding onto its last breath
As the faces cautiously awaken
Anticipating the arrival of spring.
The moon, unconcerned of the changes
Illuminates the night like always
A bright bulb in a dark canvass
With swathes of brush strokes
Hiding pieces of its body
Veiling its perfection imperfectly…
Screening out imperfection
Perfectly.
Jacksombre 