One twelve: January falls in itstracks, right overhead: it needs to
rest a while. Its mouth hangs
open; frigid breath exhales in an
icy blast; trees bend in sympathy
to its weight. Frozen digits gnarl
around the clouds ... winter hath
returned with a fury, knocking out
any recollection of Spring.
(c) 2007, Karla Dorman
No comments:
Post a Comment