The chickadees tomorrow may sing loud
they swim around in air with open grace.
Tomorrow trees may open limbs so proud
awaiting perching hoping they will stay.
In winter rum is summer's swallowed blues,
with blue wrapped fingers wallow keeping warm,
and warm the heart when who knows truth to who,
and who shows who where hope is seldom born?
A storm of senses now will all combust,
it's merely brought by pity's selfless acts
A doorless window's image captured, hushed
brought on my sweet love's missing helpless past.
My drooping head now breaks and falls apart
away for winter from her sealing charms.