Skull King Around
Skeletal treetops rake a Wagnerian sky.
like fingertips, chasing Valkyrie’s,
through cirrus clouds;
conducting the winter wind,
across the cerulean blue tarp
of early evening.
Bare beds, a mass of fallen leafs, shiver;
above bulbs of tulips and daffodils
which rest like skulls in a grave.
The sullen light of late December dusk,
pierces the scene with shadows,
sharpening the edges of brick walks
to bloody wayward knees
frost crusts, scabbing over the vacant
graves of long lost pets as
the day ends.
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