These prickles
These frosty barbs you fling
Fall like snowflakes in a church yard
Wet, cold, heavy
Freezing the air to
Silence.
But my heart, burrowed six feet deep,
Does not feel their wintry sting.
It sleeps and dreams
Of sunshine
And of spring.
blues in july
4 months ago
1 comment:
I love the poet. Welcome back. Dad
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