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Winter's Song That gaunt old man blew in last night riding on a gale; he's sucked the warmth up from the earth and pelted me with hale. He's scarved the world in priestly white; he's muffled all the noise of garbage cans and shopping carts, of cats, and kids, and toys. He whistles round my window panes, and moans along my eaves; he bids me go and stroll among his barren, leafless trees. Not yet, old man. Not yet. I've swaddled me in sweaters three, I've built the homefire's high. I'm bound to keep that old man out until the bluebirds fly. For though his song is nature's tune, a bittersweet refrain, beneath headstones would these old bones be ever warm again? Not yet, old man. Not yet. |
Additional Notes:
This is part of a seasonal piece (The Circle of the Year) I started
over a year ago...and am still working on.
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