status is cold
snow snatches play and cools in the make like making 'breeze c l a y'
- but
c l a y
is a fools material,
radars of winters have gloves on so their hands are always held
and to freeze,
level is easy
feel the windy days brushing your hair
the tiny cold spots upon your arms
and feel the fire of a fire log
warm bread batches, served with soup in a clay mug
loo'ing icicles; play of cold tools
storying the sock sog and the visionary fog
A contest entry
- 50 words: Winter by whiterabbit..
500 points, ended November 27, 2008, 28 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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