In the spicy air an old house sways with the wind, ice sheets on the roof. Water stands solid, building and growing on the houses, encasing those who dwell inside.
Snow sits quietly while the wind blows harshly, icicles threaten the delicate floor.
Piercing this floor, single strands of occasional green push through the ice and snow. A single barren tree pushes its branches outward, up towards the desolate sky. The living arms push higher toward the islands of vaporous clouds, looking for a place to escape the harsh sea of blue. I the watcher. Form Poetry Menu Remember My elderly face, with old fingers, looked up at the strange, old door.