Now the wind is whistling
blowing down the withered
leaves
rustling under my feet
A month is dead, a month is
born
a cozy sweater around my body
and a cup of tea
the smell of spices, drifting
in the air
cinnamon, cloves and ginger
blended with love
by the fire place
the dusk with a bold svelte
subdued
under a virgin quarter moon
behold, oh newcomer cries the
chicks
treat us with kindness
for we are new to this world
of bedlam
YOU ARE READING
WORDS OF THE INNOCENT
PoetryHere are some collections of my inner voice, Bottled and buried deep down in the depth of my heart, Scribbled down on a piece of paper. . . . She sighs,and look through the window, Waiting for the sun to shine, So she could hide in the world of book...
