Threads of Saffron

I'd drizzled the sky with threads of saffron
to mark the new year. Air still very still,
only the tip tops of trees stirred and
my cheeks burned to a burnt sienna.

If only I had a baklava, I'd
traipse across the tundra like a Russian
peasant. I'd feed salt to spotted deer.
I'd drizzle the sky with threads of saffron.
.

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