Is not the wind in your image?
Is not your voice an unpaid primage?
That scavenges upon the soul
an undue haunt of jilted voice.
Hold out the last of withering fingers
to thrash against the stirring winds.
Nothing left to befriend the winter
save pillaged corn and savage crows.
Submitted: January 27, 2021
© Copyright 2021 L.E. Belle. All rights reserved.
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Christy Writes
I've always loved the winter but this year I find myself missing warmer days. It could be that the cold is especially lonesome this year. Great work, LE. I missed reading your poetry!
Wed, January 27th, 2021 9:34pmAuthor
Reply
To me, every day is winter. I can't remember what warmth feels like (not inside anyway). Thanks for giving this a read, Christy :)
Wed, January 27th, 2021 1:46pm