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