The frost intent, the autumn broken
Winter crosses the wooded land, crisp and silent
Ice on a stream like a listless beggar,
Loitering, plunging hands;
Snow drags its belly through the dying thicket.
The timber dry,
The white flakes drift
In the shifting wind.
The snowy wash
The cliff like a pinion flight.
And the distant thunder shouting and crying
And the rain in agony in warmer places
And spring with a little patience
And places dry with the mud-cracked earth.
If there were only snow
And no rain,
If there were only the falling snow
Over the wooded land
Stumbling over fallen timber,
Fiddling the air with exhausted fingers
On a winter evening.
The swell of flakes, dry and brittle
White sullen faces about the chapel of trees
And over the tumbled warrens;
Dark clouds crouched, then spoke the thunder
Seals of rain broken,
The daring of snow’s surrender-
By this and only this, the snow existed.
Copyright © 09/04/2016 lance sheridan®