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Charm MAG
Near the crabapple tree
the snow was soft powder.
I stopped to look
at the wind chime there,
once green, now brown.
A drop of gold
at the rim of my sight:
A drop of honey
on a dune of white.
A bee, a gold and black talisman.
The bells shivered.
Confused, I leaned toward it,
plucked it from the snow
with my bare hand.
Ice-bitten, was it sleeping?
Was it dead?
The black eyes shone,
two slow notes on a snowy staff.
The golden body still
breathed music.
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This article has 2 comments.
FrySnickerdoodle said...
on Nov. 20 2009 at 6:32 pm
This is wonderful, and you are very talented.
I liked your use of words - it flows and has a certain peace about it.
I liked your use of words - it flows and has a certain peace about it.
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