#winterpoem
I glanced at the first rose of winter,
Blighted & withered by the cold,
Her blood red & stained onto the pages
Of my very first winter poem.
Across the white grounds stood a man,
Old & shivering like erosive sand,
His rake taking back the souls of nature,
Leaving still the branches bare.
But bare not much like the book on my lap,
Its skin & tissues as bare as a single hair,
The wind gushes & hushes & swips
Turning the pages alive and well.
I desire to press the ink onto the page,
And yet empty it is without a word,
For after the rose choked & blighted,
My first poem was stolen & gone.
By the wind, and into the sky,
Into the soul I've longed to recall,
Words were not enough for a poem,
For poem was not words but a person of a soul I desire.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 7:48 AM UTC
Shaken not dis-stirred
Flakes float silently
It's music to me
Fire crackling
Dancing around beneath glass
This Winter love lasts
Footprints stick in the
Fallen snow, I travel where-
Ever, yours go.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
When you can see your breath
Which makes you wonder
How many generations
Dealt with the cold
That same cold
That you feel.
©2025EllenFinn
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 6:15 PM UTC