Winter Sunrise
The flurries whisper softly against the wind as they travel to no set destination.
Some fall to the ground in earnest.
What shall they become? They wonder.
Snowmen? Snowchildren? Snow balls? A fort?
The sky is painted in hues of growing pinks and yellows.
As that of a canvas who's artist has only just begun to blend that abstract colors.
The blue is last to come, awaiting the pinks to fleet away.
The clouds rush in in white fluff, eager to cover the blue and fluidly shining light.
The sun caresses the blue, accenting its vibrant hue as the chill settles in.
The sun does nothing to cover the breeze. Nor the snow or their rushes.
How trangqil and beautiful things are,
when it's simply solitude in nature.
YOU ARE READING
Stuck between the Pages
PoesíaSmall poems with no real meanings from a writer lost in dreaming. Also, for even better poems... go read Arlahndo's poems called "The Withdrawal Effect."
