Wishful Thinking

Tossing on my rocking chair, In pitch sable dark of the night, Where no stars shimmer in the sky, Waiting for the early morning light. The bay window is clean, with a wide scene. Would the day reveal a land with woods so green? Occasionally the moon penetrates The heavy rainy murky clouds, As moonbeams glimmer over oceans. Happy the dead dispersed of crowds, For behind lay a cemetery full of snow, The North wind will never stop its blow. I was left alone in the spectral scene. Alas lonely and abandoned by all; Or do I see a faint silhouette on a moonbeam Gliding onwards toward Autumn and Fall? Ah I cannot see the golden leaves fall gently, Now I’m in winter with nothing to protect me.