top of page

The Vist

Two young heads grace down pillows

in the sleep misted room

morning light barely creeping

its soft gray carpet of day

into their dreams

lips slightly parted

stirring limbs playing somewhere

reluctant to let the light in


Two little girls

golden locks barely wisping

the blushing cheeks of tomorrow’s adolescence.

Two heads in a double bed

pajama flowers buttoning-in the sun

through pastille foliage of a new day


Yesterday they climbed into the ski lift

waved up the snowy mountain face

scarves like colored flags

laughing in the snapping wind.

In awe we watch their small toboggan

leap across the mountain peak and disappear

to reappear around the curving trail

swooping down, a swift emblazoned raft

to land with a flurry perfect in the dock,

all scarves and smiles rosy cheeks

laughing, and could they go again?


And how the younger of the two,

brave conqueror of the heights,

had turned into a sobbing child

later in the strange bedroom,

tears wetting the phone to home

as we hugged her, made chamomile tea with honey

calmed her into sleep, promising

tomorrow she may catch the bus home


Sooner or later we will lose them,

to the bus, the flying years,

the budding concerns of teenagers.

Next year, this time, they will be taller,

sweaters filling out with giggles and talk of boys.

Perhaps they will not come at all

and we will be left with our chamomile tea

and memories of a winter childhood,

scarves flying against the snow

To Go Back To
Hit your browser's

© Johnmichael Simon



bottom of page