at the turning of the year – December 31


wide flat snow fields fade up

into the sky, pink blushes sliding by

at the horizon as we travel north

towards homes that have

forgotten the prairie runs which

gave them life.


breath catches in our throats

like a knife’s edge sighing through

layers of thought, the quiet,

simple cold fitting upon us like

the scabbard of a king: royal,

sacred, and longing to be filled.


at the turning of the year life hovers,

breathes, and moves on.

and we perhaps make too much

of the passing. as if the fields would

not be as quiet and open and filled

with light, if we did not mark them.



This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.