WInter’s Rot

Hands are masked turning over the leaf, page, cover.
Pilfering your own possession.
Nothing’s left, it all makes sense.
To use up the broken, torn, cut discard and shape it again for a new eye.
The solution sleeps in the bags, boxes, vessels where forgotten purpose escaped.
Give something to cut, reshape, realign and not waste.
Hold, think little, and do.

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