This is winter by moonlight, carrying
The black horsehair of night across the
White cold floor, across a creek
That feeds the woods.
A hoarse wind crawls along
Foliage fallen in a frost
And lets their shadows wither in snow.
It is so late, a candle burning in my
Window tolls the hours.
I’ve never seen a more haloed radiance —
Moonlight’s wharves white and snowy,
I see its waxen color hefting
A flat blue mist. Sack of black clouds
Holding their breath until new snow creaks to life,
Then falling slowly, penciled white so
Softly, onto the boughs, the boughs are cold
And bare; their sap no longer weeps, no longer runs.
This is a cold passage heirloom to a sky,
A scarf of white slender to a Spring.
But if the rains be unbound, dank and wringing,
Will soon knead mounded flakes;
Is all the winter dare try?
With bales of rime a full circled moon fastens
A grip — backbends the waterdrops;
I see flakes turn and twindle onto the brae;
Brute beauty over the thick, voluminous soil.
Copyright © 12/07/17 lance sheridan®