They spoke of white blankets,
Of icy knives,
Of salty passes,
And of clanking chains.
And so I sit-
Waiting for wintery whispers
Upon silken silicate,
Speaking truths, telling tales
Of millennia past,
Of memories lasting,
Of a consciousness unknown
And unknowable.
To them, it is merely cyclical,
The ebb and flow of temperature and growth.
To me,
In this place,
With these people
It is poetic and beautiful.

06/19/2012

Posted on 06/19/2012
Copyright © 2025 Christopher J Davidson