Sky blue skies
Red brick houses
What are those berries
On the branches
Poking through
The green leaf bushes
It is too cold to walk
What, in these ice-grey skies
Why to set foot out
Better surely
To take to the couch
And listen
To Spiegel im Spiegel
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by