Quiet Songs Poem by Smoky Hoss

This morning snow is laying on roof tops
like sheet music waiting to be sung.
A chill in the news,
John Prine is dead.
Snow flakes falling, so slow,
as if lost, absently left to wander.
A lonely, looking face I find
in my coffee cup;
I thought I saw him smile,
maybe even wink - I'm not sure...
An old tree just outside the window pane
waves a long branch my way
pointing toward the earth,
as if telling me; Hey,
come over here, you've got to see this!
At the window I look,
beyond the 'pain'
below the tree
upon the earth, I see
a small flower has risen up...
gazing, I take another drink,
this time I do see,
him looking back at me
smiling...