Holly berries drip wet with rain.
They seem painted against the dark green leaves
like a Thomas Kinkade piece,
the ones my grandmother loved.
The sky is a gloomy grey hanging over the town,
not so that it brings me down,
only makes me feel wrapped in the rain the clouds cry,
swimming through the afternoon.
Ah, what a day it is to be alive,
lying in the grass, soaked wet from weather
while dreaming snow meets the soggy ground
and rests atop the holly berries.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 3:52 PM UTC
Holly berries drip wet with rain.
They seem painted against the dark green leaves
like a Thomas Kinkade piece,
the ones my grandmother loved.
The sky is a gloomy grey hanging over the town,
not so that it brings me down,
only makes me feel wrapped in the rain the clouds cry,
swimming through the afternoon.
Ah, what a day it is to be alive,
lying in the grass, soaked wet from weather
while dreaming snow meets the soggy ground
and rests atop the holly berries.
