On a Winter Painting
Pillowy white goose feathers
have fallen softly
upon the creaky grass
rotting away
after the autumn feast.
Lacy icicles of flakes
freezing the final
leftovers of the trees.
Exhausted life protected
below the snowstriken embrace
of this mysterious quilt.
What will emerge
out of the covers
once the long sleep is done?
Trees, bushes or, may hap, a rose?
a butterfly?
or, woe, the slithering body of a snake
sliding its way in hissing sighs
melting the ice while winding by?
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