06 Friday Dec 2019
Posted in Poetry, spirituality
the fields
blown whiter now
than first with winter squall
I wonder how they miss us here –
do they miss us
most of all
when evergreen
their branches brush
against an endless night
do they know
how hard the coming back
to a place within the light
an ancient star
once wished upon
when held beneath a worried chill
I wonder how it is
I knew –
how I would miss you
still
. . .
Starry-eyed Writer, Cautious Philosopher, Hopeful Romantic
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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