Shadows of the neck
Graceful swan
And fragile sparrow
In the days of gold.
Cold wind, big boots,
Frozen lakes that
Never thaw
Skeleton trees.
Naked- who are they,
The swans that
Leave feathers of white
Their necks strained towards the moon.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
