Stop-
Listen to the humming
Of the ground
As the last snow fall
Turns to streams.
I can hear the flowers,
Singing there,
In their wait,
For the cold to say
"Until the next frosty hill,
Until her nose becomes red
With the bite of the wind,
And until all of your children
Have fled to their new beginning."
YOU ARE READING
Remorse, Regret, and Those Things I Cannot Forget
PuisiThere are monsters inside me which I have let roam free for much too long.
