Winter

The memory of autumn's rage
Lies crumpled and spent
Under the echo of the honking of the last goose.

A young woman, walking alone in a winter garden,
Feels an icy grip seize her back.
She convinces herself it is only the breath of a dying white iris.

An elderly couple, carefully measuring each step,
Pause in their constitutional long enough
To reassure each other of their own reflections.

The cardinals are perched in the evergreen.
A sharp-shinned hawk waits on a barren limb.
Only the wind dances.

One man sat by the river's edge marking time in the creeping ice.
Another man, walking on the muddy bank, foresaw his own ruination.
"What are these to me?" scoffed the snowman.

One must have a mind of winter to find comfort in
The cracked limbs and crusted hills
And the blue stars swirling overhead.
Mike Cox

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