13 May


And of the winter snow;
‘ere no telling of its weight,
no confidence in its design,
laid dissimilar as the stars,
unpredictable bitter frost.

And of the summer rain;
whether fury or philander,
no sign of its worn demise,
lest ‘ere be wetted grasses,
stained with a melancholy.

And of the northern wind;
chilling for the unburdened,
yet warm for the feral few,
pray, what cost of its wrath,
laying waste to sultry plain.

And of my wandering eye;
no horizon bids my comfort,
no skies are left to ponder,
so how then shall I explore
that undiscovered sky afar.

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Posted by on May 13, 2016 in My Poetry



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