poetry sin caps lock

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The trees we used to walk under
Have been cut down, simple beauty painted red,
Speckled with purple, blooming through white
Petals now reveal light grey clouds, disguising
Memories of a summertime where those flowers waved
And clove followed me home step in step
Over the whispering flowers.

The smells of Sunday cooking run out into the streets,
Filling them up with sugar, spice, and warmth
But I shiver. Coat wrapping tighter around me, dogs bark,
Feet howling to kick off my heels and crawl
Into a comfy sleep, with the smell of cinnamon
Cider tucking me deep into dreams of hidden skies

Over the whispering flowers.

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