Every so often
The earth fancies a covering
A blanket of sorts
One that carpets the ground
Drapes the trees
Buries dead leaves
Forming make-shift throws
Over park benches
On such days
There’s no birdsong
But the whisper
Of winter’s breeze
Puffs of condensed breath
And the crunch
Of gravel underfoot
As I  marvel at
Earth’s winter blanket

©Vivian Zems

Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto, 

Real Toads