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Poetry of 2006/07 by Donna Flood
January 14, 2007


There is a whisperin’ at my window.
Is it the brush of the silent snow?

The swhishing is now a hum,
A song from someone to come?

Quickly again there is a burst
The cry is something worse.

The wail is a familiar one
Heard before where openings done.

Once when I was a child
The sound was so wild

Today it’s rather a welcome groan,
Surely an acquaintance I’ve known?

A crying from a prairie house of long ago,
Where it had companionship with snow.

I find it hard today to hate it,
Rather feel this sounds a bit of overate.

And much more of a kindred kind,
Who can tell of our aging mind.


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