an old writer and his words

In the cold nightof another winterhe stares outacross the barren fieldswhich have long forgottenthe taste of the sun.He watches carefullyfor a signbut the naked branchdenies the breeze.He remembershow it once wasin the heatof the dying firethe sweetness of her lipslingering on his tongue.She is gone, has beenso long, her faceis hiddenby the gauzy veilof time.He…