The ground is covered in frost.
Underneath, the frozen buds
Are held in glass,
Grass statues.
Indoors I push my little
Rose plant into each slither of sunlight
It smiles at me
It's the least I could do.
I turn my face to the window,
Hold it in the fragile, momentary glow.
I understand the flowers
In Winter, the gratitude.
Copyright LJ 2021
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.