Cindy Smith Poems

With each passing day winter’s grip loosens.
A season about to end; a new one ready to hurl its bright
greens, pinks, and yellows against a fresh canvass of orange
sunset giving way only to starry nights even Van Gogh might
...

Minutes grow to be hours that meld into days.
The days shade imperceptibly into months.
The months fold over into years
then the years dash into the decades.
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