While the fierce night air
clamps and grips the land,
the feathers and quills of frost
etch their gallery of the turning year.
Their white ink is memory of the summer,
ferns, lilies, rose petals, plumes of grass
traced on windows; is transience,
a eulogy for a life engraved in the blanched
efflorescence of farewell.
Frank McMahon
Somewhere Else Writers Group 