As I Wrote This
As I wrote this, upon my bed,
fumbling with words yet to be said,
I felt the chill of a spring day
next to glass painted winter gray,
and marveled how the seasons wed.
In galoshes, shiny and red,
kids splashed in puddles as they fled
from their front doors, to laugh and play,
as I wrote this...
I grew old never having bled.
Never left my butter and bread.
Observed the world from where I lay.
Life happened while I was away,
leaving my thoughts and weaving thread,
as I wrote this...
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
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