Wind Chill

 The door of winter
is frozen shut, 

and like the bodies
of long extinct animals, cars 

lie abandoned wherever
the cold road has taken them.
 

How ceremonious snow is,
with what quiet severity 

it turns even death to a formal
arrangement.
 

Alone at my window, I listen
to the wind, 

to the small leaves clicking
in their coffins of ice.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...