Igloo
Some winters have the harshness of flint-Thudding in a mute greyness of bone chilling light.
Maudlin us to attempt to see some glow shining somewhere.
Not an entire despair but near enough to disappoint.
Days do not flow they only stack one frozen on the other.
We sit on verges of despondancy dreaming of spring
When the birds singing at least softens air.
Not all winters though...
Somehow I have found summer in my heart and
I want to dance in snow with my love aglow
And sleep with him in his igloo as we declare
The winter is soft to us.
Poetry by jenks
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Written on 2010-11-09 at 00:43
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