You won’t remember.

Snow fell in December, flakes as fragile as love. A poet wept. Time stood still.

The world was beautiful and I felt special, knowing I’m not.

Yes, beauty is deceptive. Winter turned to spring. I learned the language of loss and how much I miss a snowflake.

~ A

draft 3

Published by

Anna Watson

~ write like a painter

2 thoughts on “”

Comments are closed.