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inside the winter light

Sunday morning in the city,
icy pavement, icy street,
bare trees white with winter's white
its silence overwhelms

you wrote a poem about paper and skin,
we play rock, paper, scissors
inside this fairy dust;

in orbs of water,
it is always snowing
it covers and hides us
like bubbles we collide

not long ago,
wild geese
left no impressions, no shadows
for the leopards in the snow,
who are we, always coming and
going?

Falling. I remember cherry blossoms falling.
In another life, we picked wild raspberries
by the lake. We danced like young light,
shimmering with leaves.

Editing stage: 

Comments

the crystal drips
their spiral route entwine
beneath the harsh pool

cherry winds pull
the softness
from the wim of tree

enjoyed this poem
reminding me to
let go
and shift in textual
enumeration

memories like
seasons winds

heavy on the imagery but light on the word choices. even so, painted a very beautiful and white pcture for me. thx.

nullus anxietas,
the_fool

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