Gray runs its taut fingers
along the green ivied gardens
while silencing
the feathered singers
and mother’s
northern breath hardens
the ground’s soils...
Where once, the long
pliable vines
held gentle the blooms
of life to open lines
of varied hues,
shades and forms
surrounding and evolving
beyond the conforms
of conscious
rings, folds and foils-
Now a pervasive
quietness rules the nest-
while winter’s cold
grip subdues warmth’s quest;
the outer light
dims and ebbs low
and the horizon
is darkened by a storytelling of crow
abandoning the fallen
- to the spoils.
Rising phantoms tend
the empty fields.
Growing images of
non sense and ill feels
ingesting the black
fruits as remorse yields;
along with the aggrieved
flowers of thorny shields-
all harvested from
the bane peels of roils.
A fine inner
light flickers - within the depths of each soul;
as the night and the
day hold covenant for the sun’s hold
and its restitution
of heat upon the consuming cold.
It is understood that
some things will not survive...
As deep within
the earth emerges the snow croci; a new
alive.
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