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.


6 thoughts on “The Place of Memories Made

  1. As a child I would wear two pairs of socks over my hands for snowball fights haha. I love this, it reminds me of the joys of playing in the snow while simultaneously feeling somewhat hollow with the realization that I will never get to show or see what we use to make again… damn I wish I had a camera as a child! Thanks for posting another brilliant poem, this made me think

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