Poetry

Winter Song

You tear the blankets
from the branches.
Bitter, in the sharp moonlight
they are nude and mute.

Quickly! Desperately!
Your harsh hands sweep
the field, the river, the valley,
until all is painted gray.

Snakes burrow with the roots to
escape the frigid forest floor.
The deep dirt is warm,
while the crust whitens.

The hills shiver silently
as a gloomy sun hides all the morn.
Fallen seeds patiently wait,
and are devoured by ice.

Winter is a time for dying,
the cold winds sing.

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