She runs and plays in Palisades.
Icy pink hues and crystaline blues.
She dances under a sparkling,shimmering,
Where eveything is alive and new.
silvery moon.
It is a place where she does not hear you
when you speak. She is lost in her
own world of the playing tune.
She sings,spins,twirls stops,drops.
She create snow angels where
shes plopped.Her heart grows warm
She does not fret the icy storms.
Her head propped on pillows of snow.
She wraps herself in a blanket of cold
in the cold as she sings songs of a man
and upon her lips his stories are told
as she watches through iceicles...
at the hot way that his stories unfold.
