One of my poems

Remaining dreams

The graveyard of dreams

rests in cold dark days.

Frost rises on tree bark,

picks dry pine cones,

encircles me, like prey,

strips leaves from branches,

which tumble down, on withered reeds.

I walk the path,

where sunken crosses stand.

When sun is shining again,

let thoughts drift

past weeping willows,

who bend their heads

into shallow streams.

When remembering, the dead,

their dreams,

we see, what remained of them.