DROWSING
Frost, in a tangle of deceiving lines,
has painted blossoms on the window’s glass—
the outer cold its silent, steady hand.
And morning’s edge cuts sharp, without reply.
The order of my words slips out of reach,
today’s clear vision falling into mist,
and meaning drains away, a senseless breach.
From deep within, the silvered winter twists
its favor, snowing softly in the clash
of my own senses—piercing, yet it stays,
it pricks with cruelness only snow can flash,
inscribing on me in its frosted ways
a poem of silence—tender, aching, still—
whose whisper draws me into gentle sleep.
Just one more moment and—
I am not, nor are they, nor…
Author: Veron
