Early Winter


  • The crystal blades of winter frost
    Have snipped the leaves that dot the field.
    The trees leak iron-black across
    The sky where evening swallows wheeled.

    A knifey light cuts deep and shows
    Leaves with their intricate designs
    Half sodden in the drifted snows,
    Beneath the moaning, deathless pines.

    And wind like water softly pours
    Over the gnashing river reeds.
    The river that no longer roars
    Died quiet in its bed of weeds.

    Now morning vapors ghost and drift.
    The clouds beyond look thickly whisked.
    There comes a bitter snow to sift
    The frozen earth, where seeds lie disked.