Kevin Andrew Murphy

Holy Holle, Mother Winter, Shakes her eider till it flutters, Till the ticking frees its feathers, Drifting, shifting into snowflakes, Soft as swansdown, slowly falling, Blanketing the world in whiteness. Robed in furs of spotless whiteness, Rapt, the Snow Queen watches winter. Glacial ice, her . . . . Continue Reading »