1.25.2014

No Moss, & Not Proud

When the season turns Blue,
bruised by silence buried in snow,
no end in sight,
light a distant
remnant of Noontimes forgot,
fought over, then ignored,
stored for another dark week on Earth,
it’s worth recalling how it feels,
heels entrenched,
benched like an understudy waits,
ingratiates the Moon to draw its curtains back,
black like night,
flight impossible, no one watching under
cover of the greyest shroud--
Clouds.

Margaret has the Real Toads visiting past prompts, thankfully reminding me of the wonderful chained rhyme, first introduced to us by Hedgewitch.