Good poems are like winter
When the fierce wind
Strips trees to X-rays
Nailed to the blinding blue

When the rain scoured air
Cleansed and clear
Pared down to Nothing
Reveals everything

When world, warmth-stripped
Left uncaring, cold
Shakes us awake
From our ambiguous dreams

Good poems are like winter
Much removed, little left
But those few remnants scream
With blood curdling power