I have some more thoughts about your dreams of late
The storm has passed.
Was beautiful but beauty
was ruined by the fact
that many there are a river
away without warmth still
or who finally got it then
lost it instantly in the
new storm without name.
Still, the gingko trees on
my block are golding up,
lost few leaves to snow
weight and wind; snow softly
sits accenting a white feather
boa between limb crotches,
winking through powder and
gold glitter over pedestrians
below who feel a sudden heat,
a flush of love,
and don't know why.
Isn't love always above us?
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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