steep drift
In verdant snows that bloomed with red;
Of poppies pushing their sleepy heads.
Awakened past their due, their stead-
Ripped from July's mellow breast.
Where runs the river glass and meek:
A hidden oasis; paradise deep.
In waters warm with summers hue;
Not forgotten but undue.
And shimmers trees everlasting;
Greens that fights to sing past its-
Night; a color to dance with white.
A morning winter's snowy bright.
So much alive and so much dead.
Why fear that wondrous winter's breath.
Another cousin to our beds;
The snowy trails that shift and wed.
And there in frame stands a wooden 'stead;
In dulcet doublets; warm and red.
She lived there, growing poppies still;
Amidst the flurries of December's will.
A house for thee but not for me;
These snows will have to comfort me.
For I find still the evergreen-
Bursts forth it's pines across my cheeks.
The night is wonderous and cold;
With moon like glass etched to a glow.
Yet still I wonder is it so-
So maddening to want to sleep it through.
We men weren't made to watch the stars;
The realms of the many eyed wolves and larks;
Yet I find myself enthralled in tow-
Moonstruck; mooncalf, daft and slow.
Another moth to the light aglow;
Those ruddy fires hold no show-
In winter's window; white as snow.
Where peers that silhouette I know.
bold lake