Scratching at the front door,
the cold wind moves from a whisper to a wail.
Soft slippers sit side by side,
a desire to slip into my slippers and walk downstairs.
Sorrowfully waiting for the scratching to end,
you tempt me to return to you.
Poetry | Stories | Photography
Scratching at the front door,
the cold wind moves from a whisper to a wail.
Soft slippers sit side by side,
a desire to slip into my slippers and walk downstairs.
Sorrowfully waiting for the scratching to end,
you tempt me to return to you.
Nothing tangible
to touch tonight,
his ghost
an ethereal plume.