Cold surrounds me,
painting the canvas gray,
putting us to bed early.
Mr. Sun is hiding.
I feed the birds
for my own SALVATION.
Snow covers the earth white;
we wait impatiently for green buds.
Sitting in your chair, I’m questioning reality,
remembering yesterday, but not today.
Memories are kept in a box;
pictures hang behind yellow glass.
I’m putting the puzzle together.
Dying is part of living.
Here I am living, waiting to die.