But New England takes the prize
the air is brittle
frozen sun little
against the frozen tears in the eyes.

Matchstick trees naked and burned
smolder in purple and gray
that turns its chilled face away
like a host of lovers spurned.

White mantle of fallen snow a shroud
over landscape dead
beneath a sky of lead
and wandering black soul of a cloud.

In a dream I broke off a piece of frozen air
and a cold pomade
of snow and mud made
that I used to comb out my frozen hair.

Twiggy bushes like woven webs undone
dance and swoon
beneath a daytime moon
and snares the dime of the moth-like sun.

Distant hills like mounds of unfired clay
awaiting the potter’s fire
in subtle glazes they conspire
to march in single file silently away.

And among the bushes tattered and torn
the spirit of the rose
that every Spring grows
beside the silent sentry of the thorn.

Meadows of white linen laid out with mad buffet
of haycock scones
mashed potato stones
and a snow-covered plow of rusted gray.

The black crow like a nun emitting scolding caws
a harsh lament
a warning meant
to Winter’s intent; a fading echo to a lost cause.

And in the basement a cold furnace grumbles
like a stomach unfed
of ghosts of the dead
leaf that skitters and scatters and stumbles.

As evening’s purple shadows start to grow
across the ice-cold floor
and under the door
the frigid arctic breath of Winter blows.

Frosted window panes like an ice cube tray
overlook a pond of desperate ice
a frozen flatness so precise
its cracks zig zag in a rigid geometric way.