Holy Winter

words Vivienne Hill  |  ART Sam Coates

Dark days and desiccating winds

strip the once lush leaves,

curled like canker

weaving its cocoon.

Chipped-bark branches

brace west against the

prevailing tongue of

polar ice-licked flesh

of skeletal fingers.

Beneath the carpet

of decay and release

feeder roots quenched

with water, long stored

from spring rains,

hidden beneath crusts

of hard soil.

Dormant days of buried

dreams and plans

pruned back to stubs

wait for the hallowed

breath that thaws

the feathery frost

to bring up the

spring-bud break.