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Poem 11
October 9, 2014
That frosty, ominous wind from North
makes parents hold their children forth
and drop them into the free-falling air
helpless, desperate, lonely, bare
Green with innocene, not yet ripe
reaching to God, the sun they swipe
Age changes all, children grow old
and soon, the tales of life unfold
A bearer themselves, the old carry on
brittle, dry, soon to be gone
Now a sage, gold shines through
A soul to Heaven, to God be true
That frosty, ominous wind from North
makes parents hold their children forth
and drop them into the free-falling air
hopeless, desperate, lonely, bare
© Xiao H., Naperville, IL
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I simply write in an attempt to communicate with others and to relieve the burdens life throws at us all. Most of my work is a healing process that I hope others can connect with. I have a strong dislike for titling my work, because the title belongs to the person reading the poem. It's not something I, as the author, feel I have a right to invent. Therefore, I number my poems.