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.