Whisper
When sky is baby blue
and the clouds mirror newly fallen snow,
white fluffs clean and crisp,
tucked in around all edges, a comforter
matching robin’s egg, and the trees,
who whisper to each other
constantly, trunks gently swaying,
branches bare, but not brittle,
what are they saying?
Marjorie Moorhead writes from a New England river valley, surrounded by mountains and four season change. She is an AIDS survivor, and mother, who tries for a daily reverent walk. Finding a voice in poetry has brought Marjorie much joy, and a needed sense of community. Her work is found online at many journal sites, in several anthologies, and two chapbooks.
Amethyst Review 