Thymos

a start-of-winter poem

The wind is grey with ice.

Frozen days rot from inside,

leaves are black with silence.

My long hours are unended,part

of me has left at night.

The first snow waits to sweep

down from the blind hills.

Reviews

[Kelly Scheppers]

I remember waiting for the first thaw of winter, that first crust of snow, sinking deep. "The wind is grey with ice" stands apart for me. Most eloquent, Leslie.