The Language Of Snow
The next morning
over the frozen world
I see the snow, its faint,
peaceful breaths outside
and in the pale light the
hidden sun holds back,
I saw a crow shaking
snow off its feathers on
top a telephone pole.
There is something
joyous in his elegy
before he leaves
and the air is so still
nothing moves the
icicles hanging from
branches, coating the
leaves as if earth’s
appeal reached heaven.
The invisible lives of
flowers are pillowed
in their home, and I
long to hold one of
them in the shell of
my hand. I listen to the
covert language of
winter cloaked in its
sleep.
Bobbi Sinha-Morey is a reviewer for the online magazine Specusphere and a poet. Her credits include Bellowing Ark, Pirene’s Fountain, and The Penwood Review, among others. Her latest book of poetry, Rain Song, is available at www.writewordsinc.com .