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Snowflakes, Legends of the Wolves

In a winter chorus, autumn’s rouge and sallow shed.
Their shuffle settles loamy dregs of timber lords.
As they await the hurling puff to haply brush the forest floor,
of what to grace their lot, they’ve lack. No praise up-whirls.

All we born, as such, descend, as severed from an high accord.
Then swept to shadowed crags, the dreams of day retire.
With hardened creeds to surly shelter us beneath their stale lore,
the burly breeze to heft comes seldom to inspire.

But note the gust that swaggers brazing licks. Proud trunks in swaths it leaves.
The tongue to pummel trees, the tunnel breath, rolls through us.
The nostril flume imbibes this ghost, the same who, wrapped in thunder, looms.
There stirs incessantly the So and Hum, the chant by which we move.

Now when the clearings and the coasts show nowhere crowd nor cross of deer,
all the same, the hunt, there seems, a trail ‘s taking.
And one’s wile, self-avowed, is from that faithless rut to veer.
Stray the path, would he, which he the wolf is breaking.

Yet hear! The faintest ting and slightest twitch received command.
To cosmic tenor, resound seasons with their forms.
The chief of words holds still the ages in a solitary day.
The less are strung to sentence nature to her norms.

Transfixed whilst in the lunar gaze, a deathlike swoon stars wield.
Sonic relevance will seize in dins and swirls.
As planes celestial pivot lives by this unheard, odd eloquence,
there must a whisper be, recanting etheric grooves.

For contentment covets smiles from the jowls of astral frill,
when the way has winter whited to no end.
Will not the stellar figures, sought and viewed, resolve the brisk enthrall?
They must revolve with summer’s patterns to portend.

But with the cold, the heaven’s clearest churn in crystals.
The night is smeared in depths, occult by frigid flow.
Yet the utterance to shift the morning twilight’s brightest stars
lies silence hedged with the chime of flakes of snow.

Copyright © Eric Dent | Year Posted 2019

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