by March 12, 2018 0 comments

Your footprints left
thin as ghosts.

Silent branches flower
their glass
through my brittle dreams

as a script
of ice vines its grief
toward sunrise.

Crystal bells ring
as the last star
falls to the treetops

and this lost moment
becomes a drop of frost
melting to earth.

editors note:

Stolen sleep in Winter’s wake. – mh clay

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