The Snow

I see the grass.

I see it's green.

I see the leaves that fell from trees.

I see the landscape.

I see the road.

I see the house where had been the snow,

white and speckled in it's waning glow.

Where once the streets stood still

now the staccato rhythm,

the sound of footsteps.  Distant, expired.

Like those places between mid-sentence

that took us unaware.

And the bird who flaps his wings             

is a warm july meandering round hills,

moulding lavender across the scape of the land.

But as receding as the lips of she who kissed me,

yet still as the sun reflected in her eyes.

The wind whirring through trees,

bringing fourth autumn skies.

Dark turns to bright.

Each day returns to night.

Curtains drawn, 

we climb another stepping stone. 

Like spiders weaving webs upon the ceiling,

and the time I awoke to find I had been dreaming.

But autumn had barely time to explain,

for you drew another breath and it snowed again.

Author's Note

Critique welcome.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

lovely

[irishdreamer]

Well constructed with very expressive words and imagery.....Excellent!

[TL Boehm]

Like spiders weaving webs upon the ceiling,

and the time I awoke to find I had been dreaming.

But autumn had barely time to explain,

for you drew another breath and it snowed again.

this is beautifully penned

[.]

enchanting..somthing serene about you delivery..nice job