Another gray day, snow everywhere, the piles at the margins
deckled with grit. No sun, again. In the backyard,
crows are passing rumors one rough syllable
at a time. Spring is a language from another
country. Green is a vocabulary word on a flash
card. Crocus and daffodils, impossible constructs.
This is all there is: sky, the color of snow. Snow,
the color of sky. Every day, a few more inches
deposited in the bank. Accumulation takes on
sinister undertones. Finches cluster sullenly
at the feeders, won’t trade their shabby
cardigans for something yellow and silky.
The mind of winter is white and interior.
Silence fills the shadows. The sky lowers,
and look, more snow’s beginning to fall.

~Barbara Crooker

poems online



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