The sky is not my home.

I not belong
among the mountain tops
that threaten
to break the banks of clouds.

I cannot see
through the thinnest fog
and the secrets
that it shrouds.

I cannot hear in the thin air
the wind howls
to quiet each thought
said aloud.

I cannot speak to the sky
It turns my words to whispers
leaving me with dry lips
and silent vows.

Warmth and light

In the snow,
the delicate rose
longs for the sun;
for the warmth it knows
while the growth of it's stems
is slowly undone.

In the night,
it views the stars
so distant and cold
while feeling lonely
and growing old.

One by one,
the petals fall
to embrace the hardened turf
when the ground warms again
they shall become
a part of this earth.