I began writing of thee, 63
but after considerable effort and time
belched out only glib rhyme
when I recalled my last walk,
however, it was in winter woods, only yesterday,
the frozen ground crunched under my ancient boots,
speaking to me in its own verse
“move fast,
this white art won’t last,
make your tracks deep, soon
we’ll not make a peep”
so I complied,
stomping on the frigid frost
shuffling with aging caution on thick ice
watching my breath mist gray
the still air
was such the entire walk
one foot after another, making tracks
lesser numbered beasts would sniff and see…
fading remnants of the me
then I saw you, crystalline knives
hanging from brittle branches long ago grayed
reflecting all that came within your sight
in your solid time, dripping drops slowly,
silently, before freezing once again
in the approaching night
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
I began writing of thee, 63
but after considerable effort and time
belched out only glib rhyme
when I recalled my last walk,
however, it was in winter woods, only yesterday,
the frozen ground crunched under my ancient boots,
speaking to me in its own verse
“move fast,
this white art won’t last,
make your tracks deep, soon
we’ll not make a peep”
so I complied,
stomping on the frigid frost
shuffling with aging caution on thick ice
watching my breath mist gray
the still air
was such the entire walk
one foot after another, making tracks
lesser numbered beasts would sniff and see…
fading remnants of the me
then I saw you, crystalline knives
hanging from brittle branches long ago grayed
reflecting all that came within your sight
in your solid time, dripping drops slowly,
silently, before freezing once again
in the approaching night
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