Six women sit on the edge of a borrowed home,
of log and glass, heat and fire,
looking over the precipice at winter's borrowed beauty,
of snow and trees, cold and ice.
Each hold something, someone,
a hot cup of tea
a foot
a hand full of chocolates
a tender question--
the Comforter surrounding, filling,
spilling through their lips and hands,
as they travel for miles across the hills,
reflected in their sisters' snowy eyes.
I'd rather have one moment like this than a hundred well-wrought poems. This moment is before the other three ladies joined us. It really was so beautiful. Words cannot express.
of log and glass, heat and fire,
looking over the precipice at winter's borrowed beauty,
of snow and trees, cold and ice.
Each hold something, someone,
a hot cup of tea
a foot
a hand full of chocolates
a tender question--
the Comforter surrounding, filling,
spilling through their lips and hands,
as they travel for miles across the hills,
reflected in their sisters' snowy eyes.
I'd rather have one moment like this than a hundred well-wrought poems. This moment is before the other three ladies joined us. It really was so beautiful. Words cannot express.
