Speak Language of Shapes

 

 

 

Shadows on the snow
Extend indefinitely
Beyond the white fields.

 

 

 

 

 

 Single branch peeks out
Of flower pot on the porch--
Surviving seasons.

Sign and its shadow
Motionless in icy air
Speak language of shapes.

Forsythia bush
Bends to the filthy snow bank,
Kissing it gently.

The cold is biting,
Nipping at my naked hands;
Best put my gloves on.

First a faint whisper,
Then a louder hollow call:
The wind in the woods.

With his head pulled back
Woodpecker prepares to strike;
Soon a "rat-a-tat".

Shaggy stalks spring up
In the blank and bleak wasteland;
Yerry Hill tundra.