Snow Days
A blanket cold and soft.
Steep hills slick and unblemished.
An army marches toward the top,
weapons in hand.
The uniforms stiff
yet warm.
A treaty brokered.
Not one will attack until
the morning. Sounds
of shovels digging and
crunches of feet
overcome the whistles,
the voices of troops.
Shadows of dusk hit fully formed towers.
The army sleeps.
Dawn breaks the earth
slowly the army
makes their way
weapons waiting.
A bugle sounds
bellows fill the air.
Soon laughter saturates
the cold winter day.
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Hello Y'all!
Here is another poem, since it snowed here.
Hope you enjoy!
~B. Whetstone
