Between the bookshelves and standing plates,
An old wooden chair whispers tales of time.
I sit and watch the hill beyond the gate,
A blanket of snow, silence so sublime.
The window frames a world both cold and bright,
Each flake a ghost of winter's frozen breath.
The hill, a white expanse in morning light,
A canvas of stillness, hinting at death.
The chair creaks softly under my deep sigh,
A sentinel of countless quiet days.
I trace the snow's descent from grey-lit sky,
Its fall a dance, a slow, deliberate maze.
Amidst the hush, I find a calm reprieve,
In this old chair, the world, I almost believe.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 16th, 2024 07:28
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 40
- Users favorite of this poem: 𓆩Mase𓆪, rengoku
Offline)
Comments3
Great write
A beautiful sonnet. Lovely winter description and a feeling of peace being attained. Happy Tuesday.
Thanks Cassie, I always appreciate your feedback
You kept the entire rhythm as “slow and deliberate” I really like that it fits the theme of your poem…
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.