A Poem: "The Bones of Winter"

It is as if everything dies at once; together in a quiet leave.
The morning after is silent;
All the leaves have fallen- lush branches now skeletal and frail.
The symphony of birds, the whisper of warm winds,
The performance of waltzing trees,
Disappear into a realm of cold forgotten.
A heavy air, a crueler weighty sky
Burdens a now deadened terrain;
A season destroyed to make way for another.
This vale of grief shrouds the earth in sables
Where we will have to wait to be children once again.

Bus Stop #78

Standing at bus stop #78
I clasp my armpits possessively,
as if someone had asked to borrow them,
but I refused.

It’s unbearably cold.
People pass with their faces hidden
behind thick wool; only their eyes exposed
to this piercing winter,
dying to reach their destination.

The sound of traffic,
the smell of diesel,
the tired, busy bodies heading somewhere,
anywhere besides this icy prison.
They look numb
to any care other than escaping.

Time stops
when a chilling breeze picks up.
Infant snow bursts into an unclaimed sky;
appearing as soft crystals dancing
amongst those who despise its very presence.
Everyone is still, waiting
for the snow to settle.