L.T. Garvin, expressing the essence of winter for me:

Always something amiss

blue frost sweeping the edge

of a hard north wind

An open wound

Festers in the flutter of consciousness

a patient soul smothered in dark ashes

Slumbering in discontent sleep

On a path spanned

by the assault of seasons

time dated by carbon

On a trail of jagged footprints

a tortured traveler

Sets afoot

in a field of solitude amongst

allotments lined with marble markers

the words now fade to charcoal

That marked the haunted plains

sprinkled over with gold and crimson

discarded leaves drift between spaces

as time unwraps the tragedy

where one day the flowers

will fold their sorrowful  blooms

in sweet surrender


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