Two seasonal poems: one I wrote recently, and the other I wrote this past April and just rediscovered it.

I start majority of my poems on my phone, but I hardly ever finish them. They typically stay unfinished because I write most of these poems while I'm out, and the next morning some don't make sense at all. But they always come full circle, like this poem about winter that I had forgotten about has new meaning to me now, and I appreciate what it meant to me in that moment. Finding old poems are my favorite treasures because they are like time capsules wrapped in a bow for me.

These poems were not intentionally meant to be seasonal, but I think it's indicative of how much seasons have played a role in my life since I've lived in D.C. Seasons have been my keeper of time -- a fickle beast that never rests.


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