The blizzard has sunk into the ground here,
I suppose it will seed itself
Like wild thistle in our pasture
Snow, I think I remember you,
didn't we meet in a splash creek
when I was five,
less snow-weary....,
My, how you've grown,
But where are
your sun kisses?
Love this. Such a gentle poem.
ReplyDeleteMade me remember the creek back home.
Hope all is well with you!
Hugs, B
Where did my second comment go. I love I've got this antique. WEll anyway, I said you are a blessing to the world. Oh well. To me too, of course. B
ReplyDeletety, Barbara. The river of small stones got me through January last year, which was a very rough month. Now I read them and kind of shrug, but at the time, they meant a lot.
ReplyDeleteI think it's fun to write without worrying about if it meets some standard someone set. Just let the words string themselves together and see where they go.
So far only one frosted morning here...in general not much snow. I like both pieces. Sometimes I feel like an antique.
ReplyDeleteWrite to breath, breath to write...
Cheers.
Beautifully written.
ReplyDelete