the breeze is a whip, lashing frozen trees
should have brought my sunglasses she said
squinting to see if we could still be
composure as cool as the wind
orange brown and gray
a touch of gold from the suns reflection off her skin
watching dying grass, remembering where we've been
morning sun warming two hearts of hair
leaves crumble, animating the air
blue of the sky
meet my clouded eye
pale silver carving stone
hammer and nail
chip away apathy
ice sculpture of a head
melting
No comments:
Post a Comment