Leaves Poem by Wayne Cheah
Leaves
It's the night before
Christmas,
all is quiet and still,
a knock on my door
harsh as winter's chill.
No one is really there
I know,
just wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air
with nowhere to go.
I look at the door
handle,
dirty and rusty brown,
like a window decor,
stopping no thief or vandal.
There's room here somewhere
I know,
for wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air,
with nowhere to go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/25/2024 7:06:42 AM # 1.0.0.1119
