so crisp in the snow,
left the safety of the path behind.
Looking about I wondered where to go,
if I followed would I be out of my mind?
’Twas an easy decision, I trailed the prints
finding myself trekking for miles,
‘til there ahead I spied a glade,
free of Winters icy wiles…
In the centre
a laughing brook tumbled,
birds happily chirped in trees,
I walked to the bank of the water,
feeling warmth as I sank to my knees.
I trailed my cold fingers to thaw them,
for to take the fierce aching away,
’twas then I suddenly espied him
and I stood up quickly to say
“Beg pardon, is this glade
private, should I
not be here at all?”
He replied with such love, “You are here, my dove,
as you died in the cold snow fall”
Penpusher by Pen
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