Hollows of trees echo outside themselves

Hollows of trees echo outside themselves. 

Twigs sway like beetles flipped downside up;

Premature snowflakes suspended

Glisten above the dusty curtain clouds. 

The mountains are surly, buried as they are

Up to their craggy chins in an orange woolen blanket. 

So many things sigh all at once

In a low, lowing chorus;

Grass playing host to parasitic frost

Loses its forced resolve, and yields

Beneath the soles of my firm flat feet. 

Curled carcasses, leaves laid with care upon the concrete

Like small animals unearthed from hibernation

Rustle their brown and gold shells

In semblance of life, but they are gone in a puff of winter impatience. 

The bite in the air is one with malice

One that targets the open parts of my jacket

Works its way up my neck in shivers and goosebumps

To set upon soft thoughts drifting in with the night.

Victim to curved claws and grinning canines

Once and together, they fall to their knees

Too weak to fight the farmer’s battle

With weapons of will against frost.

They drop confessions from their scarlet chapped lips

Of bits of sparkling soul, harvested thoughtless

Taken by excess of intention, not so much permission

And an overlying mist of selfishness.

In the same breath they speak

Of pieces relinquished

In tribute, in payment, in an accidental fashion,

Like trading suitcases at the baggage claim.

A misread of the internal print

Has incurred a feeling of loss at both ends.

A feeling of seeking, of sailing

Through the wet, white air

Over the broken grass and tragic leaves

Over the sleeping heads of mountains

Brushing aside the cirrus drapes

To float unencumbered between the snowflakes

That at this proximity, shine more like stars