Song Of A White Sky

Two types of snowdrops shiver in the slippery breeze: the shy droplets and the belled petals, striped with green.
Icy, the breeze slides.
Nipped fingers pull the wool of the warm scarf, cosy up fragile flesh.
Cold mud, under the tread of the boots, plasticized: tracks that draw the eye to the gate of the field where the old barn squats.
To the gate, and pull the squealing bolt and find here, white as winter flora, open sky: wide open sky.


Stephanie said…
Beautiful! And shivery. I drew my blanket closer around my shoulders.
klahanie said…
And as the wind doth howl out yonder window, your words, your photos, reminiscent of an earlier time today.

Thank you,

Suze said…
Oh, thank you for the image with your words!
The Cranky said…
I envy you your snowdrops; it's still far too cold for them here.
Lisa Southard said…
Thank you all!! Yep, it's chilly here, but so much to marvel at. Would like to live in field where the old barn sits :-)

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