Snow Day
The storm was a quiet killer.
Beautiful children ran
lightly over its silence.
Buses where delayed by a whispering sky.
Angles fell deep,
frozen hands froze walking minds.
Waddle and stagger go the old men
some die to themselves,
or die in cold rooms by themselves.
Many laughed and played,
some prayed with fumy breaths
for the weather to pass away
like the dead cat at the front door.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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