Somewhere, the trees are
heavy with a cottoning of snow,
and the morning sky is not
bleak blue but sleepy grey.
You are sitting at your window with your
book untouched on the unmade bed,
for the drifting flakes are far more
beautiful than any words I
could ever dream.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Somewhere, the trees are
heavy with a cottoning of snow,
and the morning sky is not
bleak blue but sleepy grey.
You are sitting at your window with your
book untouched on the unmade bed,
for the drifting flakes are far more
beautiful than any words I
could ever dream.
