December is early evenings and winter rain, the sun falling fast over the trees that line this small town on the edge of a big city. December is white feather earrings, sweaters with snowflake patterns, numb fingers, warm toes and happy news. December is new white lace-curtains that feel like grandmother's home when you touch it. December is blue, December is white, December is grey, December is green, December is the miracle of being alive. December is sweet memory, like waking up with the taste of candy floss on your tongue.
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Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
