poetry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the wind howls outside in it's cold and brittle voice. the sun eeks out it's loving warmth with the frailest of heart to shelter those wandering the fields, sparing what little is left of summer memories. delicate, lacey snowflakes fall like spun glass, rioting the frozen air with tiny laughter and sparkling eyes.

 an angel stands behind the frail curtain, quiet, listening and waiting

for us to speak again in our own delicate voice.