Wayne Hill Poet Free verse

Final Snow

Descending from the firmament,
complexly frozen mists of white,
crystals swirl in downward helix.

Upturned cheeks sting with contact.
Eyelashes filter clashing sleet,
as I burrow within my shield.

The congregation of wind intensifies,
pushing blinding flakes horizontal.
Sound waves interrupt themselves.

Deeper the folded waters pile.
Gales drift powder into rivulets,
while the insulation accumulates.

Alone, the storm fall isolates,
muting frayed voices,
hibernating chains of rich warmth.

I lie down in the buried meadow.
A white sleep promises rest,
drifting with the falling chill.

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Lucilla Carrillo September 28, 2013 at 11:58 PM Great poem. I always love the cold weather and the snow, but i would not want to die like that. thanks for sharing... Lucilla

Richard Lamoureux September 28, 2013 at 4:12 PM makes me think of when people have surcumbed to exposure and lie down to sleep their final sleep. Both sad and cold but well depicted.

Robert Pettit September 28, 2013 at 8:34 AM I felt colder just reading this very descriptive write.