The Cold Poem by Gert Strydom
The Cold
Black frost fall killing, chilling
plants and grass to death
while a tiny sickle moon
watches flimsy
and there's iciness
to the wind
which cries around the corners of the house
and through French windows
the chill creeps in
like a unwelcome visitor
and tonight I am really sure
that it is winter.
Monday, July 24, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: coldness
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5/10/2024 7:13:16 PM # 1.0.0.1119
