Memory Of Snow
A frost-tinge in the air at dawn,
A pale icing upon the lawn,
A prickle of cold at the nose--
And with each breath the thin fog grows.
A geese echo from north to south,
A taste of cold light in the mouth,
A rosy blush for face and hands--
A stillness sliding 'cross the land.
A darkness falling sooner still,
A mark of white upon the hill,
A glowing banner spans the skies--
And somewhere, far, a lone wolf cries.