I Don’t Say

I make it a point not to speak when I have nothing to say.

The Place of Memories Made

Muted sounds and snowball rounds, arranged along the ledge, are readied for the battlegrounds, that lie beyond the hedge.

Abandoned angels in the ice, lie frozen in the scape, while from the window billow smells, of breakfast meals baked.

Soon the sun will melt this stage, where kids in mittens played, erasing all the traces in, the place of memories made.