here we do not have
circles of stones
to mark the solemnity
of the passing seasons
of changing times
instead the crows
cry ceaselessly in the cold
or cackle cruelly at the dawn’s
watery-eyed failure to warm
the crisp earthen pathways
here the trees throw their leaves
and stand in naked defiance
of snow-heavy skies
winter lays down her mantle
and weaves her frigid fingers
through the cracks in the sills
here we bide our time
through the gray days
waiting for the laughter of crows
and the trees to weep
in green relief
of warmer days


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