Song of a Winter Attic
Sheets of white ice double the frozen glass,
the net curtains break the ice light and the
smell of damp books and insects, autumn apples,
moments of childhood under eaves,
I am not in sorrow apart from sorrowing, a terrible desire
is born to stop clocks, victims of time and snow and
my grave is hidden under dusty floorboards, so
scratching with broken fingers I search for my sorrow.
poem by Leslie Philibert
Added by Poetry Lover
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