Cold morning. Warm talk
on telephone, the snow globe
of feelings stirred up.
Didn’t think it would
shake up the flakes of feelings -
so dense the movement
flurries wiping out
comical conical hats;
houses of red roofs.
White is peace and death,
the knees of trees deep in it
as it fills the woods.
A nice poem.
ReplyDeleteThank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.
Thank you for reading.
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