13 April, 2017



Cold rain, pure as the pine tree smell in the air,
rushed through strands of red hair,
ran down a tear streaked face

North wind gales, hit like a slap
turning the face South
to the stabs of pain.

Weather wrapped its tight hold 
around an indifferent, motionless,
body of shivers

As a large hand tried to grab on.

Copyright Denise A White 

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