The tin of winter

In pale winter dawn
tongues of flakes
cease to speak;
birch trees stiffen into place,
waist-deep in a snowy mound.

Cold stalks through a sluice
of ice in a pond,
fish frozen in a swim,
hunger for a fisher’s hook,
prologue to a drown.

Blackened sky taunts
the clouded wind
anxious to drift
softly snow; headlong
into white reflections down.

On stilted legs, winter paints
a season long,
knowing not spring nor
summer warmth;
not haste for a thawing gaunt.

I remember that moment
and the cold wing,
when a dark sky emptied
its promise; you are so white
suddenly; endlessly snow.

Copyright © 12/02/18 lance sheridan®

The tin of winter

Andrew Wyeth

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