It is a cold snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I waste more time.
<><><><><><><>
By Robert Bly
YOU ARE READING
Poetry 101
PoetryThis is a collection of poems for fellow poetry lovers. (I didn't write any of these)
