Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 9
The mountain is hard to climb, river shifted,
I have no trickle or mote of strength.
I see that now the window's bright again.
Besides the road, cloudy mist feed into blossom,
Each petal further adding one more to spring.
My sigh mourn in snow dust,
Yearning, my writing continue to spread.
old willow
Written by
old willow  17/M
(17/M)   
  598
   Imran Islam and Sheila Haskins
Please log in to view and add comments on poems