In the white theatre of the gale,
a barn’s vermilion gates
and the woolen scarlet of kin
stand like beacons to the lost.
The air is a script of whirling ash,
yet in the hearth’s small kingdom
rosehip constellations drift
through the dark gold sea of tea —
omens of return,
of warmth wrested
from the storm’s
dominion.
.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 2:44 AM UTC
In the white theatre of the gale,
a barn’s vermilion gates
and the woolen scarlet of kin
stand like beacons to the lost.
The air is a script of whirling ash,
yet in the hearth’s small kingdom
rosehip constellations drift
through the dark gold sea of tea —
omens of return,
of warmth wrested
from the storm’s
dominion.
.
