See you in the snow,
No daze or fog could distract,
My eyes from my love.

let's cover heads with winter hats
and criss cross fields with winter tracks

be quick to  claim  this winter scape
the early bird new tracks will make

long before the last chimney smoke
The wind will craft a winter coat.

across this land a blanket bright.
concealing blemishes winter white.

as the sun appears to try its hand
at waking up this freezing land

the bitter chill will win this fight  
between bright  blue sky and coming night.

You think I speak of blood lineage,
Clearly I hold the whetstone,
But that's because you're dull.

Maybe,
I am.

From my shine, shimmer-
I'll stay solid as file;
Whether if needed firm or gentle,
Soft or abrasive.

In address to the west,
The rising sun.

At least, that's from our perspective.

From the hammer
Who shaped the stone.

bare trees stand in the morning stillness as
silent watchers, empty, cold air fills the gaps
between the branches and withering leaves
a tender cry cuts past the bedroom door
his comfort rushes to her
hands desperate but tainted with selfishness

a daughter bundled in wrath, braces for the trudge ahead

sideways he staggers one foot, and then the other
thump, thump, and THUMP
the veil unravels, before the bathroom mirror
a man caught between fury and shame

he sees her frail blanket, and can only reach for more

if i lie in bed
at night with the phone
flashlight on

so i can see the careful night
staring back at me

will i remember the taste
of summer
though late winter stings like california

will i watch a squinting sun
look at me like a black hole
though the night stays calm beside me

to find something
to know it

if i lie in bed
the dotting black of my room is the universe the flashlight is on
and i am the sun

You are lovely
like birds in winter,
a rare sight when the world has turned its
back.
When solitude slips into
loneliness,
and the echo of forgotten places
becomes a silence so loud
it deafens—
you.
You shouldn’t be here,
but you are.
Fragile and feathered,
defying the dying world
with every beat of your wings.

I’ve shrunk myself before,
folded into corners,
but you—
you are smaller still,
yet somehow
you stand taller than the frozen trees.
You sing in the biting cold,
pirouette on the barren branches,
murmur in the bleakest of skies.

Unshaken by the darkest days,
you’re here to remind me
that something in me is, too.
No matter how dark,
no matter how cold,
no matter how dead it all seems—
there’s always something flying,
something singing,
something alive
in that desolate stretch.

It may seem
small

but,

it’s enough.

A Gulf Stream wisp, whistles, languidly,
along, a recalcitrant breeze.
Speaking of temperature, angrily.
The Pavement, can't help, but, freeze.

Branches, embarrass themselves,
with, protruding bark, baring all.
Their dream, is to one day, be shelves.
When, a messianic carpenter, calls.

Teeth clench. Bold, Blizzard, barges in,
nervous Fangs, creek, in Her presence.
She peppers, horizons, white, arduous sin.
Tusks, sign, mute alarms, luminescent.

Coy burrows, open their arms, to hug,
their Creators, for crisp slumbers, ahead.
Moonlit Creatures, pull and tug.
At soil, Voodoo dolls, to stab, Winter, dead.

© poormansdreams