Apr 2020
swish of sheets
and flurries of light,
cotton through fingers
a touch to wet ice.
pillows of white,
slow nights of sleet
call to mine conscience
fond memories to keep.
and flurries of light,
cotton through fingers
a touch to wet ice.
pillows of white,
slow nights of sleet
call to mine conscience
fond memories to keep.
a tribute to my father, who sprinted out of the house worried when eleven-year old me laid motionless in the snow.
