Late in Winter


The days are still gray;
uncomfortable and longer.
You're moving once again,
sweeping amid my brain,
more and more legend
as time progresses.

This winter, when will it end?
The chafing rain followed
by an unsoothing shroud of snow.

Again I watch faces,
and occurrences appear in the fire.
And I still see you;
humming, making the bed, slowly disappearing
into palpable decline.

Out past the panes
through this spell of haze
your cardinals have come back
to the feeder.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem