by P. R. Lowe
copyright May 15 , 2015 (written Dec. 11, 1971)

After the first snow
when fields lie pressed to the earth
and grasses are turned to beige
the death that wails
between clacking branches
and empty hollows
stirs life within the void
The feeling of remorse
hangs veiled within a crystal icicle
while warm rabbits lie sleeping in thickets
awaiting the summer sound of crickets
bounding forth
down and around my window
and in the mind
shadows of the time
hang like the night
as a silvery snow flake
taken in her flight
melting like a candle drop
down around my nose and lips
The remembered bitter numbness
of tiny fingers in the snow
now grips my heart
Id never imagined
what I would know

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