Monday, February 6, 2012


These prickles
These frosty barbs you fling
Fall like snowflakes in a church yard
Wet, cold, heavy
Freezing the air to


But my heart, burrowed six feet deep,
Does not feel their wintry sting.
It sleeps and dreams
Of sunshine
And of spring.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I love the poet. Welcome back. Dad