The days are short,
The sun a spark,
Hung thin between
The dark and dark.
Fat snowy footsteps
Track the floor.
Milk bottles burst
Outside the door.
The river is
A frozen place
Held still beneath
The trees of lace.
The sky is low
The wind is gray.
The radiator
Purrs all day.
Our furnace is roaring
ReplyDeleteI like this poem. It is pleasant and modest.
ReplyDelete