Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Go between the rows
that blossom once the
frost goes on,

and know
that the ice,
on the grass,
shows your steps, gone

away, to some place
where the blossoms
never freeze…

are never gone.

The ‘ever-leaves
remain green
and ignore frost’s
blow, in this
‘ever-home.

Footsteps melt,
I will follow.

For now,
I will follow

alone.


©️ 2018.

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