Under light and fog, the dawn of winter
In its shadow, the broken images of trees,
The last fingers of leaves clutch and sink
Swallowed by the slow silver stream flow,
The wind and the snow creep softly
Their footsteps on the low, damp ground.
The stream freezes
Crisp and cold,
The snow drifts
White bones of flakes,
The brisk swell of wind
And the dusted woods,
The caw of the crow
In the frosty silence.
Strain on the earth, descending winter
Echoing timber in the waste of woods,
The plank of autumn’s reason broke
And dropped down into the worm hole,
And finished knowing. …
The snow is thick in the bitter air.
Copyright © 09/25/2016 lance sheridan®