the hand of winter stretched out
his grey gloves and poured snow
out of his pitcher it fell upon the
world in cold numbing waves it
washed away all the colors of fall €”
it beat back my favorite lilies into
the hand of white dust like people
are prone to beat one another into
the dust for a sense of self worth. I
don’t understand why winter thinks
he needs to be such a bully he beats
his cold fiercely upon the land blasts
his wailing banshee winds upon the
zephyr and rips remaining leaf missives
from trees with such force they yelp.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Wilderness Interface Zone 
Sounds like a Pennsylvania winter!
For a while, I lived up in the NW corner, in Oil City. The image of winter that I carry from that time is of crossing an old girder bridge over the Allegheny River during a storm, the toothy Pennsylvania wind biting through all my clothing. Below me, ice chunks like jumbled jigsaw pieces floated past the bridge supports. Heavy clouds overhead. From the steel girders to the ice chunks to the clouds–solid cold.
Interesting line! My mind is busy imagining what a leaf’s yelp sounds like.
LikeLike
Winter as bully. Bully as winter. Cool.
LikeLike