Snow drifts down as old wives' whispers - piling <br />up in gossiped heaps against the house we built - <br />covering the earth with unstained pictures of what might <br />have been - now dormant truth (not postcard perfect) <br />lives on in images we draw as breath - <br />we live what might have been our Springtime, once.<br /><br />Kevin Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seasons-change-11/
