Here is a very rough poem for which I was hoping to get some thoughts on:
i can tell
when you lean in quite close
that you wear the fragile grin of a child
on your face,
to hide behind gritted armour
has done you well
but you leave a trail of feathers behind
whenever I walk with you,
a hurried look on your face
to peek through fences
and burrow in the mud
excitement for any difference in the day,
what wonderful character that is,
to fill my head with thoughts of
daisies and falling
leaves and perfume
staining the air,
innocent charm that
scoops me up and tosses me
onto a bed of golden leaves
stealing sweet smiles
that become gentler
and soften into tiny baby giggles
as you frame my face with your hands
and lean in quite close
The snow is falling now, and I am happy to walk through the village and let it cover me like a cloak. The flakes tickle my eyelashes and for once I am okay with giggling to myself and smiling, even though passers by can see no reason for a grin or a smirk on such a grey day.
Grey days hardly bother me. I like the stoic feel of the sky, to find the peeking light in other places when the sun is not shining amuses me and brings me much pleasure. And how amplified the little pleasures seem on days when there appears to be no light. The want or need for them is much greater.
I do not want the winter to end. I really do not. I like the way it makes me feel. I love the coziness of coming indoors from a frosty walk and warming my cheeks by the fire. I like how hot chocolate is smooth and how quilts are heavy warmth wrapped around my legs.
I like the woods when it is snowing. How the birch looks behind a sheet of falling snow. How the evergreens become white monuments with green needles poking through. How tracks outline a walkway of otherwise white roads and guide me anyway and every way. And if I find a lonely path, I would hope that my own tracks would not be covered by the ceaseless snowfall, though beautiful and silent, that I might, when I desire, be able to find my way back.