Red Room with White Angels

I open the windows
and stand alone;
growing cold in the wind.

Just a part of the story,
I'm looking out down the path.

Now like the mist above the stream,
I hover.

When the days grow,
Never again will it be the same.
Never be the same.
From the red room
with white angels.

© 1984 Sonja J. Phinney