Winter, and All Hangs by a Thread
Black thorns amid snatching twigs
form sky-torn nests,
where deep red berries
hang from dark bones.
Autumn tracks have settled
into annealed ruts,
those static waves of the fridged
and fallow fields.
There are still small birds singing
in the shredded shapes of the wind,
scattered voices that rebound
from ear to ear.
We are huddled, yet solitary,
separated by inward distances.
Farms are folding shadows,
gathering-in
the years thin linins.
Beneath the chilled earth
a behemoth stir's,
a beast of steam and vapor
arising slowly
until its face can be seen
through the melting ice,
but not yet.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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