gaze
Ice will fall from these grey skies,
somber like the child's pale eyes,
sticking to his dark lashes,
melting on cheeks like ashes.
He lies upon the chilled earth,
looking at the stars—rebirth
is what he does contemplate,
death is what is on his plate.
Ice will fall from these grey skies,
somber like the child's pale eyes.
No gloves cover his small hands,
dirty fingers grasp at land
since dead. Angels lay in snow,
lonely souls—nowhere to go—
they wait alongside him now.
His face passive with no frown,
his skin like sleet, veins like roots,
frozen dirt clings to his boots.
Ice will fall from these grey skies,
somber like the child's pale eyes.
Sweater frosted and soaked through,
he wishes for something new—
for a family to keep
and a warm bed for his sleep.
- dawn
[winter-y poem 2/3]
