Late Winter
Here I stand and take it in,
this field stacked high with balmy white,
ground made dim by moon-soaked puddles of night, or
clouds of noon pile despair unto envy,
and cords of buttery sun dance off the prospect of light.
A world locked in teeth of peace-starved time;
fog of despair shrouds thse who thrust their minds towards warm air
and walks over dreams of life stripped bare
by winter’s knife.
Hope flutters to reality as birds to the nest;
rays of radiance peak and drop on the wings of fertile crest.
Why winter and its whitewashed walls which wring
the wonder of life so dry, and snuff the flow of blazes that glow
in mortals’ eyes?
We are wanderers all, lacing lands with the life of our souls,
survival satisfies the pangs of sorrows full;
might we look around and see this shell of bondage that even we
run the mighty course just to be
surrounded with things from which we beg to flee? Be still.
The wind knocks snow upon my face;
the cold plummets spirits low as a deep brooding bass,
I stand and fear, yet know what’s clear, like glancing through a mirror:
revival shall come to this time-forsaken place;
come to sweep the chains and bind the air of times unkind.
Copyright © Davis Smith | Year Posted 2018
|