December 23rd, 2010


winter poem


The wind hisses in the leaves and reeds,
And stillborn buds cling to bare branches.
All is distant, while distance
Itself deludes- the farther shore,
Goldened by the remaining rays
Of afternoon, is a painter's landscape.
Even motion- hopping bird, small dog
Bustling before its owner, stark V
Of winging geese- seems stagecraft,
A trick of the waning light.

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