WIND IN WINTER’S HAIR
Perhaps the secret of a frozen world,
perhaps the longing shining through the ice…
Do you hear? With chill, each sentence is unfurled—
a whispered echo, woven, cold, precise.
Shard by shard of every chance collision,
first, then second, millionth turned to third,
fluttering snowflakes in a brief decision,
suspended in a spellbound, dazzling drift.
Step by step, time’s footprints form the dunes—
white expanses of an age grown cold.
Fingers of the wind caress mute tunes,
bare of passion, faith, or fury bold.
Author: Veron
