Monday, March 8, 2010


At the end of this road, there will be no more winter.
From December to March, those months are better spent sleeping;
Let your heart find rest in this forced hibernation.

The warmth that was once spread across this grateful surface
retreats, crawling back into the sun.
And the wind that once tickled your skin
and turned pinwheels,
now whips and rages, taming
the unforgiven land.

The doe, with wide eyes,
scrapes her hoof across the snow,
but the grass is frozen over;

Some tigers have been stalking her,
now with a snarl, they pounce
and she goes limp and is no more.

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