Poetry of William J Remski

Sky of grey cotton, day like the breeze
From a frozen lake.
Is the sun still there, filtering through mist?
I watch the trees, leafless, not moving,
Branches like fingers clawing heaven.
It is time to sleep.
Snow drifts down like feathers
Of some hurrying bird far overhead.
The grass is brown, dead for the season.
It is time to fly.
Rise up above the frozen ground
On wings of thought,
Climb the mountain of air and glide
Above the drifting clouds,
As night paints the sky a diamond black.