Winter
Morn
A very pale
Blue slate-gray,
A puff of
Powdered cloud.
Glassed-limbs crackle
Stiff with age
Then snap –
And boom quite loud.
Tree trunks black
In shrouds of ice –
Branches split
And splinter.
November sleeps
December wakes
To the eternal
Advent of winter!
Hilary M. Flanery
