winter again

winter, again

steam over the pot, I stuff my wool socks into shoes.

I missed him, old man winter, with his long, white, flowing beard;

His loud snore and red nose; his rosy ice-cold cheeks.

This winter, no matter the length, I will march to the pine trees, I will

peek inside the forest columns, I will let a day to listen and to look.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s