The following is a stream-of-conscious series of pretty words that I put in the general category of “poetry”. Enjoy, or suffer.
Frozen lakes fall devilishly still, rippled in the deep mirror. Aspiring to full width and breadth of the wake within the wade, the waylaid forlorn are so little quelled by the loggery felled.
Ceder Avalon
Slate and sleigh and sleet and clay, the red in the hearth is but weight in the heart. The days are a daze in a number of ways, marked by the moors of the keys in the door.
Fog and cold froth, the brook’s end wrought a mere willow creek in stone frost, for naught a drab morrow in timeless smother.
Yet sure the umber fires snugly churn the billowing fur, anew a stew pot atop a reed row tableau. Little poppets and blocks strewn astride beside the bedside, lints and prints at rest pressed at a lit pine’s behest.
So heartly a season swath will or wall, right by which rise come snow to fall. Either teethered on the aether or fettered by the weather, the wisely aspired inquire quite quieter one last thing to say.
There will always be one more wintry day.
No responses yet