Coming Storm
A hush came upon
The noon time sun
The season has gone
with this ground undone.
In snow as feathers
fall landing soundless
I see its letters
In perfection's guess.
The sky the paragraph
The tomb of gone time
In an icing of a draft
Giving a totemic rhyme.
My stores are poor
The land to yield
This season no more
As buried in this field.
In Spring to find the means
To be drawn to rivulets
And meandering streams
To sea by tidal inlets.
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