Winter's Claim

The hiss of snakes is in the air....for telling truth, they crawl away somewhere...into the brittle grass, as follower's fall off, like leaves from winter's trees...soon, not a one remain, and he'll be talking to his self.

He trusts his self, as no one else...but god, for god remains, when na'one other's there. Tis winter's ice cold shoulder, and he recognize her claim, her white white thigh revealed...a heartless lover's clamped claws clung to ground, was always lied to...hard as paving stone.

No one's immune, to her uncaring reign. She has her sable, glist'ning softness, wealth of every queenly thing...she cloy's and draws them to her breast, smothering the hope of them. They nurse upon her kind kind rest.

The wind, how fiercely calls her name, no blame, to blame...a time, a warm one cannot understand, is here, and his, and hers. He, scrunch'd against the hearth, nose, running snot...he wipes it on the world, a squeezed tear flows...to freeze upon his jaw...stare's into fires rhythm's of the snapping pitch...to other worlds of summers dream'd, as any boy, would dream them up.

The old man shivers near the door...the boy within him, sound, as any safe...his hope, a heart still warm...and very much alive. He prays, the world, a better time, to come...of bitterness to go away, to be aware...of springtime's sum.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google pic