Scrawny, twisted twigs
growing from thick, gnarly branches,
like warty fingers of a witch,
sign a signature of scratches.
Behind the still and chill
of sticks and stones,
the sky is filled with motion,
as fluffy clouds float lightly by
toward valleys and the ocean.
I wonder...
Who lives here,
in this cold, closed house,
whose garden grew no flowers?
Or had it?
Briefly, perhaps, for a spell,
before they were devoured,
by wicked winds or creepy things
that feed at midnight hour!
A few steps away, a sleeping feline,
unaware of the wide world around her,
dreams of birds and mice and everything nice,
(a list for Santa, and his flying reindeer).
I wish, for the snow,
when it touches this home,
to softly cover its scratches,
to brighten its face
with powdery lace,
in glowing, crystal, white patches.
And when it bounces off walls,
and in batches, free falls,
to lay a blanket, on its bare, lonely branches.
Thanks for visiting!
xo
Poppy
All images: Poppy View
Sharing at:
