I have dawdled
Too long in gated
Rose gardens. The air
Is fresh, the breeze
As sweet as morning dew.
Flowers blush
Red. Their leaves lap
Up the smiling sun.
But winter winds blow
Round and round
The iron gates.
Ivy tendrils tremble
While frosty fingers
Suck their life
Dry. Grass blades bend
To the cold’s keen edge,
And the clouds
Come creeping. Soon
The snow will spread
Over my idyllic eden. Waves
Of white will wash
Over the pale, pink
Petals. And the hissing
Wind will sink
Its teeth
Into my guarded, green breast.
He Who Wanders 