Winter Scribe

 

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