The frosted grass crunches beneath my feet, my breath dancing in the cold early morning air. The first rays of light stream through the tall birch trees, and despite the heavy furs wrapped around me, a chill creeps up my spine. Winter is almost here, but not yet come. Summer is faded, but not yet gone. We're in the in-between, dancing in cold moments when the sun isn't here but playing in fields without furs and cloaks when the sun is at its peak. Where the birds all fly South, and the animals begin to migrate. The leaves change colors and drop from their high branches. They'll be back next year, they always are.
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Poetry For The Masses
PoesiaA collection of poetry and poetic stories written by myself about varying topics, from simple pleasures to fantasy worlds to real problems. Organized in the order of which they're written, these stories make up thoughts and ideas that pass through m...
