Thursday, March 5, 2015

3/5


Tonight the storms that have marched 
Across the eastern seaboard and further 
Rests softly here 

On this outpost of the eastern shore. 
A thin white blanket lies under cloud cover, 
Enough to reflect 

The light of the hidden moon into a quiet, 
Low gray light that covers the flat fields 
And peeps through 

The tall inky stands of pines. I walk about 
Feeling how the wind whushes from the north 
Breathing cold gusts 

Across my face, while a faraway shush 
Echoes in my ears. Coming on midnight is ever 
A magical time 

But with the bite of ice, now seems older 
And harsher. I would say even our dogs 
Have this awareness, 

But, perhaps not so. They relish the crisp
Crunch of snow regardless of 
The hour of day.

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