Ledge

Fog on a window,

recedes as an arid lake,

long baked in the Egyptian sun.

 

Steam from nostrils,

on a frigid winters eve,

froths into the air.

Hot airballoons rise,

and so does it.

 

Nor the sappling, nor the bird,

rise to see another light.

Encompassing all,

pulling everything like sparrow and worm.

Midnight looms longer.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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