a wind turned to cold
the sound of tumbling pebbles
washed up on the shore
a wind turned to cold
the sound of tumbling pebbles
washed up on the shore
dressing for the cold
my favourite green sweater
the one with the darn
no chorus this morn
the sun casts an icy stare
on still-sleeping birds
during this cold snap
our car sits encased in ice
fingers turning blue
a cold draft playing
curling dust in oosy drifts
time for a spring clean
I dream so I write ..
“Wings are an illusive notion. Some may possess them, but they are not very visible, and as for me, there isn’t the least sign of a feather.” -Amy Carmichael
New Ideas, New Forms
Musings from an insignificant writer
14 hectares of thrills, spills and fun!
A Journal of Poetic Observations
Pictures and Poetry, Picture Poetry
My Journey on the Lonely Road to Deaf Acceptance
Ellen Grace Olinger