the stream keeps flowing
what now floats on the surface
gone within a blink
yet writers are remembered
by ink which flowed from their pens
the stream keeps flowing
what now floats on the surface
gone within a blink
yet writers are remembered
by ink which flowed from their pens
sunrise and sunset
sometimes the only colors
on a winter day
day after day of greyness
where oh where is the North Star

three day old snowman
good that he doesn’t realize
his days are numbered
then again so are all ours
live each day like it’s a gift
sun in November
staying low on horizon
piercing through the veil
what’s hidden is brought to light
what’s broken can be mended