It’s not the lazy days of summer,
wisps of clouds in the bluest sky.
Not the new breathe of spring, or
fragrant air charged with romance.
Not the rustle, the crisp feel of fall,
with color teasing our senses.
It’s the cold deadness of winter we seek,
where we hope for the beauty of snow.
Showing posts with label Potluck Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Potluck Poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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