THE THAW

There are white days
when your gate is piled high with snow
The bare branches in your back yard
burst into buds of icy blooms
The mansion visible from your window itches to tell tales
Of crumbling hearts and creaking bones
Oblivious of the pall shielding its turbulence
The street lamp enshrouds its glow in white
While the maple digs a grave for its leaves
I shall wait for this winter to pass with the receding echo of gun shots
I will hold my breath for the first narcissus to show its creamy head
And I will wait for your veins to thaw
And let me in through the walnut wood

Lily Swarn
Publicado en RavenCageZine30