In the wilderness
of snowfall, a hungry
raccoon will leave his footmarks.
I listen to the soundless
music of flurries,
flying like white moths
in blue light.
It is not dawn. Yet I
can see the outlines of
boats at the feet of―
lake moon.
You can walk now
amidst the frozen
thoughts.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: September 15th, 2020 19:53
- Category: Nature
- Views: 9
- User favorite of this poem: Trenz Pruca.
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