From a journal (wonder who I was so in love with, then?)
Beneath bare branches of a sleeping apple tree
A treasure of red jewels lies held
By frosty fingers of green grass.
Winter's first storm stripped
The last leaves and lingering fruit.
Instead, flitting sparrows
Hopping through branchlets
Jittering and chirping
This crisp dawn
Wane sun, cold blue sky
Exhaled breath visible.
All the sparkle of Christmas
Can not match the flashing twinkle
In your eyes nor
The satisfaction of our
Wordless witnessing
This early morning miracle.
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About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.
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