A fledgling winter moon attains the sky
as distant as the dream for which I’d die
while bitter, barren winds begin to sigh;
aside from the encroachment of a chill
this point of purpose gleams within me still
like glimmers from uncharted stars that spill
upon a grounded scribe that longs to scry
(so maybe he can finally learn to fly)
how fledgling winter moons attain the sky.
I think we are all born to fly, some of us learn the secrets of how to, some don't. Keep Flying ;)
ReplyDeleteNever give up on the dream. :-) It may be just around the next corner.
ReplyDeleteI shiver at the winter's cold but I hope we never lose sight of our dreams ~
ReplyDeleteI'm trying, I'm trying, it's much easier with encouraging comments such as these, thanks!!
ReplyDelete