How dim the light in the morning through the last brown leaves

And the look of the limbs curled inwards, slumped low

How soft the heater blows those long, solemn notes

Like the sound of a car scraping down an icy road, it goes

How the clock ticked, doling out scenes through my window pane

How little there was left, but how I longed for the remains

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: pacific northwest, poem, poetry, prose, sentiment, spirituality, William Pearse writer