The snow patches itself
from the highway to downtown
atmosphere of trees lining the streets,
wearing sweaters of multicolored remembrance,
unnecessary protection from verdant days.
Spring plants gaze from windowsills
from the vaulted annals
of wet sidewalks.
Bacon cheeseburger on grilled rye,
a sandwich worthy of a hardwood café
with an elevator
and a spiral staircase,
rebirthed from the ghosts
of a bank and jewelry store.
The vault remains open
free for the introspection
of flowing patron treasures
seeking respite from the baubles
of the modern.
(a response to Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”)
Whose woods they were, I think I knew,
and while I know you’ve spoken true,
when you held promises to keep,
you left your spirit, passing through.
The cold, your friend, against the sleep,
As well, your foe, towards the deep.
For living well, we poets know
that death, the price of life, is steep.
Your frosted breaths amidst the snow
have drifted more than wind will blow,
past roughest roads and miles of cars.
What man can say how far they’ll go?
Will they endure past mankind’s wars,
take flight beyond the skies of Mars?
Will snow filled peace become the stars
and signal back, to us pulsars?
) written to a prompt over at DversePoets (