If the cold was the only thing
I had left to write on, I would write
onto the cold with the breath
that escapes my lips
in the light of our wintry,
warming sun.
If the snow was the only thing
I had left to write with, I would hold
it in my numbing hands
and throw it all over
the parts of the world
that were still warm and green.
The snow would burst
out in snowflakes,
swirling and dropping,
from my fingertips.
If my words could only be
contained within this
open tundra of possibility,
I would dig below the earth
and snow and
bring up all that I had
buried there. I would take
every black stone, every
crooked branch, every
flower preserved in ice.
I would take my treasures
and place them on top
of the snow. I would lick
my chapped lips and look
down on what I had found
and smile
a sweet smile
to the white sky above
and the white snow below.
The snow would then be
covered in stones and branches
and flowers that I had set
down with shivering, bare
hands and shaped into letters.
The letters, seen from above,
would spell out:
WRITE WITH LOVE
~~~~~~~
A/N: Thank you, Malia ( @lizzymeetsmalia ), for the challenge you gave me to write about poetry.
I'm sorry it took me so long!
I've had a lot on my mind lately.
;)
xoxo
YOU ARE READING
Winter Mondays
PoetryShort Collection of Poems __ This is my first work and most likely will be a short one. I will do my best to update when inspiration strikes. These poems are not fancy or velvety, yet I hope there is some small warmth or flush of feeling that will...
