The sun comes late or not at all.
The clouds lie thick and low.
Bony fingered branches crack
in winds that sing of woe.
The earth is sealed with ruthless ice.
The daisies hide below.
The most that we can hope for is
a blossoming of snow.
© Elizabeth Steinglass, 2014, all rights reserved
Monday I visited Miss Rumphius and noticed that on Thanksgiving she shared Emily Dickinson’s poem “Autumn.” One look at that and I was tangling with winter. It seemed the perfect subject for a week with frigid temperatures. In St. Louis, my hometown, they had a foot of snow but here in Washington, all we had were cold winds, horrid gray skies, and poetry.
For more Poetry Friday, visit Donna at Mainely Write.