Barren trees, their limbs twisted by time, stiffen
in the harsh wind. Their foliage, shorn and fallen,
is swept aside like swabs, indifferent seasons,
a frozen passage

through the impermanence of life. Here, buried in
the permafrost of cross roads: our appetites -
drawn once through vestibule blood; our dreams - dark-stained
with wine gone bitter,

now silent as mourning. Naked winter,
disabused of amorous passion, writes
with gray sky, composes a song of dolor.
Listen: the wind moans.

11/16/2005

Author's Note: I hate winter.

Posted on 11/16/2005
Copyright © 2026 Jim Benz