Winterscape

By

Stephen M. Larson

Breathe deep of air

snapping against your throat;

Feel tiny needles

numbing, burning your skin;

Taste cream turned ice –

iron on your lips.

Listen:

A wandering breeze weeps for stolen warmth;

A bird calling to starblaze is answered by

crystal songs of shivering light;

A dog barking at errant snow-ash hears it

burn with cries of silence.

See:

A tree strains to grasp an errant star

with twisted arm and bent finger,

and, failing, scratches

at the passing wind.

Spring’s tender child, torn from its mother’s breast,

gone brown, dances a final mad waltz,

chasing itself in ever tighter knots, to

lie at last in a white grave.

Ghost images of summer’s blossoms fly,

silent-singing, lace-weaving, ever-changing,

dropping to rest loosely-tightly against

earth too drowsy to shake it off.

Breathe deep of air

heavy-scented with snow;

Feel tiny needles

probing, seeking your soul;

Taste cream turned ice –

winter coating your lips.

Copyright ©1974/1977/1997/2002 by Stephen M. Larson