Fickle

 

Fickle winds fly in the face of the season,

leaf-gusting flurries of red-gold.

 

Sun pours palely, but north wind wails

through the thinning boughs, twisting

 

cold ribbons of air, ice-sharp, sharp as shards

of a broken heart, fickle as false love.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

19 thoughts on “Fickle”

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