For Want of Winter

December peaks

in dry grass

brown hills

scant rain

 

My eyes cross time

to Julys and Augusts

set on fire

 

and I wait

 

The glade cracks and bristles

The birch splits

The River

runs to nothingness

Skies blue and still

 

for want

of Winter

 

snow.

 

 

 

— C.M.