NaPoWriMo Eighteen: Penn-Child

I remember the cold wetness gliding beneath my feet,
A cool breeze crosses my crimson cheeks.
A Pennsylvania icicle drops from my porch,
In old times it would call for some candles to be lit, possibly a torch.

The crackle of frozen green grass,
Is no match for the white laid on the ground reflective like glass.
There’s a constant ambiance of howling trees,

No longer a hum of honeybees.

I long to see the vast fields of white,
To thank it for providing my childhood, with endless light.


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