poem by me: winter morning (with abused punctuation)
a few half-hearted icicles still,
the slowly-disappearing snow in the backyard,
a solitary robin on a desolate branch;
above, the sky stretches like faded blue silk: old, and empty of any warmth.
the slowly-disappearing snow in the backyard,
a solitary robin on a desolate branch;
above, the sky stretches like faded blue silk: old, and empty of any warmth.
But that's the lovely thing about art, isn't it? Two people can see/read the same thing and come away with completely different impressions, neither of which is wrong.