Winter I - the Long Darkness
Though winter seems to come later
And later these years
Often now
Not until February
The snow inevitably arrives
And the trees become bent over
Shrinking in height
Growing long beards
Leaning
On a staff
Of wind from the north
Old shepherds
Tending to and kneading
The icy fleece of their flock
And so many other creatures
On their last leg
Are out there
Sinking as well
Tempted to believe
I’ve made it this far
Maybe just maybe…
But no
Lo
There are no more twigs
Or thorns
From which to miserably nibble
To sustain the movement of bones
And flow of blood
Until the tulips curl from the underworld
And a clap of thunder
Draws ice from the rivers
To an opened lake of sun
No
There is always that winter
From which some
Shall not emerge.
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