Hutch
by Marilyn Westfall



The drifter took shelter
in honeycombed cardboard,
drew knees to chest and slept
on salvaged egg-crate foam.

Impressions of his boots
like deep quotation marks
in icy snow could tell
the curious his hutch

was nestled among firs
and camouflaged by lush
needles, scent redolent
as incense, of comfort

perhaps to young hikers
who found him at first thaw,
a woolen scarf sheathing
his perfectly blue face.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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