listless as winter
but conker-brown
polished too
stretched taut
etched so fine
so ineffable
small sneaky fingers
feeling for being
a writhe, a wriggle
more inertia.
The wait.
impatient
for wonderment
that crack, that one
convulsive shiver
Behold!
a bold winged creature
stepping out
Just 44 words for Merril’s quadrille: Shiver
PoetryPix 