By John Thomas Tuft
It’s often given names like shroud or blanket
Moisture from above in fractal patterns displayed
Floating and falling in the music of the wind
On a cold winter’s night, I wish I had stayed.
She said, “it’s cold outside” as she handed me my coat
I remember the flame of the candle danced
The cuckoo clock on the wall didn’t bother to announce
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, love takes a chance.
Sitting on a bench under robed trees in the park
Sleepy pigeons seem impatient for me to go
I’m silently praying there’s light still burning in her window
On a cold winter’s night, lost in the soul snow.