Ashen winged birds sing lullabies of departure,
gliding as if they were the ones chosen
to lay down blankets of snow.
upon sleeping earth.
Barren months, the twiddle of thumbs.
Marks of soil,
vanish the ground and etch my mind.
Hoos and hums creak through midnight.
Winter’s breath crystallizes
on my living room window.
The golden dog
nosedives into the raw pits
of the first snow.
Scents of creatures who passed in nightfall
stir the air.
Her rose snout meets the remnants of sap
carried by the North wind.
Whistles heard from shaky evergreens.
Chill on bare paws,
her fur doesn’t shudder.
The skeletal wind can be heard
tapping on the front door,
with hopes of being invited home
to warm up by burning logs.
Branches bare in their truth.
Fire paints the evening horizon.
By the rising buttery moon,
quiet returns.
This poem was printed in Volume 1, Issue 4 Winter 2020 issue of Flora Fiction.
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