Holy cold

A

WINTER

MORN



A very pale,

Blue slate-gray,

A puff of

Powdered cloud.



Glassed-limbs crackle,

Stiff with age,

Then snap -

And boom quite loud.



Tree trunks black,

In shrouds of ice -

Branches split

And splinter.



November sleeps,

December wakes

To the eternal Advent

Of winter!