The Poet Records The Snow's Medley
The Poet Records the Snow's Medley
The harsh tips of the frigid tree limbs tower in cold repose
Their majestic spines intertwined in a crippled pose
Unashamed of their nakedness, they quiver bluntly into the sky
Clouds hang achingly, a gray so deep and familiar, they do not lie
Soon the frozen clouds will give up their secrets,
And the dead world will be buried beneath us
And the anxious can comfortably hover inside.
The winter storm bursts forth, in its silent white wonder
Threatening, with the softest of weapons, no lightning, no thunder
These blankets that the clouds lay on the land can be so heavy
And the snowflakes glistening kisses can make the roads so deadly
But the silence that explodes with a beautiful whisper
Is enough to please the patient listener,
And the poet bends to record the snow’s medley.