Retreat Poem by Donatien Moisdon
Retreat
With its snow and its howling wind
my forest bites me to the bone.
My house creaks with its every beam.
My silver key, ignored and lost,
glimmers at the foot of a tree.
My slow river keeps snaking by
my canoe, tied on a jetty.
A black hangar, will swallow me.
Bouts of laughter that slay my soul
beyond my verge bloom and unfold.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: retirement
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7/22/2025 7:18:37 AM # 1.0.0
