Narrative
traces of snow, black earth, roots
of devils hands that grasp at frost,
walls stenciled with cold growth;
a far dog coughs open a winter sunday,
but we are scared to peek under the crust,
so we tick and turn, waiting for
a dark better than this, come soon...
the light of your eyes has become
pale and diffuse, here and longer in ice
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2018
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment