That cold, harsh,
February rain slashes against
the panes of glass in my bedside window.
The sycamore tree in the front yard
with it's thick lashes,
groaning,
rattling,
has chased away the coo of the owl.
I've grown used to it's lullaby
and, as I drift off,
I worry a tired thought:
will he come back?
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 1:01 AM UTC
That cold, harsh,
February rain slashes against
the panes of glass in my bedside window.
The sycamore tree in the front yard
with it's thick lashes,
groaning,
rattling,
has chased away the coo of the owl.
I've grown used to it's lullaby
and, as I drift off,
I worry a tired thought:
will he come back?
Request permission to use this poem