Winter sun
Wet autumn leaves stick to my window
Pale winter sun bleaching
the red and gold through to my workspace
trying to touch the pages I work on
like the eager fingers of a small child
wanting to play before the snow comes.
Placing my hand in the pale streak of light
I am bathed in red and gold
My hand now belongs to an ancient God
Would that I could write with the same power
Not like a fallen angel…
Leave a Reply