A cold wind
greets me at the door.
Outside bare branches
whip the streets.
A world of one colour.
But listen to the wind.
A mockingbird sings,
an island song.
I smile, at the sight
of her breath.
And my world
turns warm again.
Scraping the windshield
A cold wind
greets me at the door.
Outside bare branches
whip the streets.
A world of one colour.
But listen to the wind.
A mockingbird sings,
an island song.
I smile, at the sight
of her breath.
And my world
turns warm again.
A Wandering Poet 