the Grandmother

The trail is packed with recent snow,

it leads to cottage of golden glow.

Through these woods I make my way

legs bent with chill of Winter's day.

 

Tis the season of frost, immeasurable cold,

I see the sight of trembling gold.

This light ran through my freezing soul,

pushing me forward through my stroll.

 

I open the woman's humble door,

resting my feet on her mahogany floor.

Out of Winter's chilling way,

I trod to hearth made of clay.

 

The orange and red of heat and fire,

seep through the grate of metal wire.

Flames flicker fly every which way,

suddenly the bustle of a tea tray.

 

The woman's feet were aged and slow,

making light thuds through her chateau.

This sacred symphony of sound

rattled through the wood ground.

 

Her hair was of a snowy white,

her teacups were dazzlingly bright.

Her face crinkled with rosy cheeks,

her apron covered in scarlet streaks.

 

Misty eyes a cooling blue,

at sight of kin they truly grew.

No longer in her solitude,

both our spirits now renewed.

 

At sunrise I now must go,

leaving the woman to her golden glow.

Through these woods I make my way

legs bent with chill of Winter's day.

 
This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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