"snowscape" poems
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_...damp
feet
make
shallow
graves
in
paths
not
swept
quite
free
of
snow..._
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Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
Transmogrified
by winter squalls,
the branches of the sycamore
have ossified into a cathedral
of snow.
A red cardinal alights
there—a spot of blood,
a feathered clot of sin.
Hush. Listen to the limbs
where he has perched:
the nascent cracking
of winter’s church.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
She calls on the cardinal in winter.
All that remains of reverence for a god who has gone--
And he appears to her!
A lone spark lighting the static of snowscape
Like a bolt of lightning traverses dimensions to strike a dream.
He delivers lost loved ones as she washes the dishes.
Ascension of memory is as steam on glass.
The child raises a finger and draws the sign of the cross,
And through the clarity of its lines, she sees the river change its mind,
Stop short,
Swirl in Inertia’s moment of uncertainty
Before scrambling frantically back toward its
Source.
She washes the dishes,
And watches through window of steam and snow for a sign from God.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
In the stillness of a winter dusk
softest snowflakes begin to fall -
draping the western slopes
with delicate veils of purest white.
The rising moon faintly glimmers
veiled by swirling clouds
and towering peaks swiftly vanish
beneath the storm’s frigid advance.
Winter has come to the mountains
painting a snowscape wonderland.
Winter has come, winter is here
and rules the high country once more.
Howling winds merge with the poignant cries
of distant coyote laments.
Deer and elk bed deep in the woods
gaining warmth in the sheltering pines.
From dawn to dusk the snow cloak deepens,
wind-sculptured drifts sweep over the hills.
Through the long night the storm presses on
lashing sleet waves against our window panes.
Homebound, we gather close to our hearths -
braced to wait out the storms final frenzy.
By morn a few lingering clouds remain -
spreading vibrant prisms of violet and gold
and shimmering crystals across the valleys.
Winter has come to our village
and with it a snowscape wonderland.
Winter is here, winter has come
to rule the high country once more.
© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC
Off this deck there are no splendid vistas to see.
Gray and marbled trees lean and weather
Rooted in the ground, entangled, rigid,
They appear imperturbable.
The earth sleeps under a veil of snow.
A hawk ensconces on a barren tree limb,
Catching the warmth of the sun, unmoving
As stone and stoic, in a blanket of cold,
The snow-covered yard seems to undulate
Below its menacing black silhouette.
A dog trots by like a miss-casted
Jackal hunting on a snow Savannah.
The path is bleak as a bleached desert.
A lone woodpecker hammers a fallen tree.
The wooden deck stays unmoved, quiet, steady
Along with its snow-covered assemblage
Of strewn chairs, square ricks, clay pots and wind chimes
Resting silent. Encircling me the air moves
And chatters in a vague idiom.
I listen as the passing moments arise and pass without hesitation.
Later on, the sky will be heavy with snow.
A grim night for star-gazers and hunters.
Even the tree trunks crackle from the cold.
I wished to see the hawk catch its quarry
But instead, watched it fly at dusk,
Slow, solemn, an apotheosis of nature,
Survivor of bleak winters, taut sinew and bone
Covered in a feathery jacket.
The morrow will see it back again and
This snowscape will flicker like a candle.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 3:11 PM UTC