Low light on frigid peaks near and far.
Snow highlights unmoving heads of spruce
solid frozen mid November’s premature death.
Last gasp of the river escapes in a ghostly
blanket under shortened sun.
I shiver inside, robed and slippered
grasp the cup
drink your words
1 comment:
I especially like the "grasp the cup" idea in this poem. Instead of coffee I am enjoying my cuppa tea.
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