The crows are screeching in the trees
The wind is howling in the eves
The door that kept tomorrow safe
Is swinging wildly in the gale.
The glow that might have been the sun
Is really from a raging fire
That’s fanned by mistrals out of place
Who bring with them an icy chill
That kills the tiny forlorn hope
Now hiding in a dusty closet
ljm