“Winter’s Elegy”

Wild bull thistle puncture my dreams

As the whip-poor-will wake me with song

There’s a sweetness on the air, even in sorrow

And it’s carried on our backs like a broken tune

Telephone poles are slick with morning ice

And the lines are adorned with fallen seed pod

They dangle like musical notes on a musical bar

Swaying in tune as Old Man Winter composes again

An overture for the ears of another season

A symphony on the wind of change

Soft sleet on a tin roof begins the percussion

While the bravest of birds flap their wings against the chill

Raising the rhythm and setting the tempo

Starts anew, a lullaby for an icy world

As a blanket of white is unfurled

— David Allen

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