The Winter of Love
A poem
MICROPOETRY
A poem
How chilling is the air where frost and moonlight
sketch long silhouettes with blackened inks,
and eyes perceive what the chilled heart desires,
to weave a silvered glaze of brittle white.
Bright stars, in awe, stare down then gently blink
like white confetti in those lofty spires.
Those words that rustle sullen frigid leaves
are unpicked textures of the cloth we weave.
Though there is stillness in this chilly air,
love will not dim nor will a virgin wind sigh.
Sadly there is not a flower to find,
no scents or gentle whispers linger there,
and memories that fade before they die
are drifting in the hallways of my mind.