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.