Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Winter Lament (678)


December is drawing

the sharp edge 

of its blade 

across an afternoon

gently falling.


Can these be the same trees, 

spindly and dull 

from which 

—last May—a harvest

of birds were calling? 


And this field, uncut

and stunted 

by the cold—

could fireflies have risen, 

blinking, from it, 

just as the rose moon was 

dawning? 


To compare is to invite

sorrow for tea, 

and He is not welcome here.


Still, knowing that somewhere 

a fragrant garden 

is in bloom, a breeze is 

balmy, while one shovels 

snow and ice 

is galling. 



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Ray Hennessey (CC0 1.0)