Snowfall

/ Lynda Bullerwell poetry

Saturday night in the back of a taxicab
feels like home to those who scratch
and claw to make it to Monday when
traffic lights are an obstacle between
bread and butter and the next quick fix.
Summer sounds better when white
is the hardest place to hide. Come in,
they say when dark gets darker and
there is no place to run from yourself.

~

3 thoughts on “Snowfall”

  1. Oh yes…the place of refuge that we know deep down inside is simply the soft pad of the kitty’s claws retracted…but waiting, waiting. We know we need to move NOW, but they are so soft, and her purr so comforting…

    love this one

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