This is the light of stars in a thick sky,
Cold and wintry; the pond ice is light blue.
The snow unloads its white on the root feet of trees,
Branches flaked, stiff and lonely;
Inside a warren, rabbit faces gentle and warm.
The moon sees nothing of this— it is silver and silent;
Yet it drags the night like a dark tongue, lapping the shadows.
The snow is falling through the door of winter, soberly,
On quiet feet, inhabiting an earth place,
Separating into fields, into drifts, murmuring wisps of white,
Orphans lost like puritans touching the blackness,
Feeling for the cold pews of a Resurrection—
O-gape in complete despair in a warming.
White-knuckled dragging in a wind— familiar Spring
When the sky is different; each swung bell
From a church tolls a passage.
Eyes of the sun lift up, so bright its candles burning,
Sharpening a flame, like the white-cloth of a saint.
Burns away the chill of winter; burned in effigy— Old Man Winter.
Copyright © 07/15/18 lance sheridan®