Snow drifts on the house's eaves.
They frisk.
They sing.
They dazzle.
Flying pen on papery mediun.
It floats.
It glides.
It surprises.
Buried in six inches of blanket.
They keep.
They warm.
They protect.
In the shadowy lampside glow
I write.
I'm right.
Good night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Cute. Sounds like a Snow Day tomorrow for you, then... -chuck