A Vine in Winter
The sky never complains about the storms,
but homes clusters of things we’ve lost~
to form a canopy of comfort,
amidst electric threads, suffocating in silence.
When cold is the air ~ tender and crisp,
cradling the gold within jinxed jasmines,
aching for a rosier rise of the sun,
as clouds sigh reveries, tinged with tears,
wreathed in memories,
of how love was once an orchid in summer,
now this heart trembles, frozen in numbness,
like a vine breathing in winter,
seeking tendrils of truth from soils of promises~
a quiet verse in a permafrost sonnet,
sealed with thistles ~ settling into nothingness,
but will the snow moon,
ever taste the hope within solitude,
that rests upon my tongue?
Or am I to remain a paradox of petals,
floating through flurry lakes of space and time?
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