She sits in the corner by her framed photographs
And cries over the changing seasons,
As the sand leaks in the hourglass.
The storms of the spring had just finished raging
After a cold and silent winter, and she
Felt no comfort in the summer's breeze,
For the autumn's chill had already
Shaken her weary bones.
The layers of dust don't rise from the frames
As she gently takes them off the shelves.
Behind the glass lies a sweeter day,
A glance of innocence-
The blazing sun before the winter's death
Fell upon the land;
The hourglass keeps tipping sand.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Lost and Found
Poetrythe joyous ache of releasing this rain how cathartic it is to speak these words and allow them to see the light of day
