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Winter
March 20, 2016
Skin is bitten by the open air;
Windows left shut, right not to feel droplets that are reminding of gray skies
A field of wheat dies as seasons live on;
Light cannot bother to be seen,
Though it exists elsewhere
For summer is missed like some four missing treasures
Days where it wasn’t minded that it was matter over mind
Times when good spirits lasted longer than the warm days;
Now, only a sick memory is left behind of the nonexistent sunset
For a sick memory is all she gave me
© Jen B., Marblehead, MA
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A poem I had originally written for an assignment under the alias "Don Thompson"