From Its Merry Weight

 

 

 

 

One bush is waving;
Others are still in slate air.
Then some fir trees bow.

White monotony,
Broken by some brown bushes.
I stare out window.

 

The square fenced in field
Contains nothing except white
In the chilling air.

 

 

 

 

 

Above a tall tree
A gray cloud is suspended
Just like a balloon.

 

 

 

 

Stirring in the woods
Wind whispers across the road;
Then murmurs away.

 

 

 

 

A flash of sunshine
Lights up the shadows in the woods,
Revealing strange shapes.
 

 

 

 

 

The sky is darker;
Wind is restless all around,
Roaring and pleading.

It surely will fall: 

Mailbox hung with ornaments
From its merry weight.