A Walk Among The Trees
The
trees along the path quake in the breeze.
I
too shake, our limbs alike in the cold.
The
heavens give us snow,
But
it is too much!
All
is buried.
When
it thaws, hope will come to us again—
Until then, our brittle
lungs will ache; the air hinder our bodies and sadden our souls.
(This poem is written solely with words that come from Anglo-Saxon/ Old English roots--with the exception of "until." It used to say, "up to" so every single word had an OE ancestor, but I though "until" flowed better.)
