Poetry

Hear it.
Hear the whistling.
Hear it through the trees so still, and stoic.
Do you hear it? Listen closer...

You're still.
You aren't blinking.
Your arms at your sides and it comes with chills.
...Now you've got it.

Look out.
Across the land.
Feel the winter song, let your hearth burn bright,
Inside your breast.

Untouched.
Raw - Primal.
Impervious strength, and yet... delicate.
You can feel her.



-A Moment's Reflect.
Dan Tait