nuclear winter

of discontent

my stick snaps

small hills of grit

along the pathway

men are sweeping

outside my window
the few snowflakes dance
in the cold morning

cutting through brambles

the invisible ropes

wrapped tight round my arms

To a fresh breeze
I open my window
New year's first caller

hear the reports
of lights in the sky
- another year drawn to its close

fairy lights
on a christmas tree
a present unwrapped

we run to the store
to look for the present
the full moon over us

my frozen tree
holds nets of seeds
small birds fly in to view