by Me
The wind she howls,
her icy breath bites and
nips landscape's heels.
Trees huddle, their shaking
branches pointing long fingers
into the night.
Snow blows and lifts into
twirling images - ladies
dancing with their veils.
This night she knows no whispers.
This night she howls...
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About Me
- ms. muse
- Grace: It meets us where we are, but does not leave us where it found us. Anne Lamott
4 comments:
Hauntingly exquisite. I'm there!
Of course, Charles, I'd be flattered.
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