Mist rises from the green, green firs.
Down in the valley, a dozen farms
Nestle in harvested fields, wicking warmth
From burnished maples and red cherry boughs.
The air is frigid, defying candle-bright leaves
And the golden-glow sunset.
Waves of pale, dry, feather-light grass
Are snow on the hillside.
Dew caught on spider-silk is cold, cold rain;
There are icicle-clouds clinging to a frosty
Sky up there.
Something beyond the apple-spice
And gypsy drumming in goose wing-beats
Says "Winter."
No comments:
Post a Comment