Now, as winter fires fall soft and low,
and the snow is tossed
and blown about,
I find in the blankets
of my weary head,
the comfort of things
I might of said.
In my tiny bed
of make believe,
the dragons, the demons
are glad to leave.
And the icy chill that wraps
the window pane,
is lost to the warmth and wonder
within my brain.
So, the wind may blow,
the fire may die,
but neither can ever
ferret why . . .
I smile
I choose to ignore their face
gone to the memory
of some happier place.
