|
Written by The Presbyterian Outlook
|
|
Thursday, 17 December 2009 15:57 |
Out there,
More than maple leaves
fall—
burnt red,
beneath graying skies,
winter’s dread.
Downward life drifts,
languid,
hope’s empty hand
bequeaths nothing
to the dead.
In here,
More than old-house
creaks—
as cold breeze
through cracked pane
kisses my face,
alters my bed.
 |
Subscribe to this comment's feed
