Janus
Fog lies thick over sodden ground --
a curtain of winter whites --
drawn close around the barren trees,
muffling would-be sound and sight
of a gray January morning.
The year is new. The light yet dim.
Starlings fly in figure eight
amidst the sunken clouds,
foreboding well a coming weight,
still hidden hopes to bring.
A haze of sorts congests the heart,
not yet awake to hear the call.
Heavy clouds fill hollow wells, 'til full,
in a sullen sleep that buries all,
sifting word and thought and dream.
A sudden wind, a lifted weight -
mysterious - this lightened load, unbidden.
The murky mists begin to drift,
light burns clear that lifeless hold, forgiven,
as burning off old winter's dross.
Until, at last, the Sun breaks through.
No comments:
Post a Comment