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.
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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…
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