Interiors

The hardwoods hold up a lowered sky.
Migrating wings lift away
from the advancing tides of cold.
It is a winter like none before.

Fronds of ferns that spread their lace,
tall and green above the forest floors,
now lie brown, waiting their blanket.
It is the winter of our sorrow.

The little ones comfort one another,
sharing bodyheat and autumn stores.
Deer seek refuge in the laurel thickets.
It is the winter of our compassion.

Mountain peaks stand vigil over
fallen ruins and miscarried destinies.
A weary earth asks for mercy.
It is the winter of our forgiveness.

Icy embattlements arrest and occupy.
Remembered summer suns warm
like a covered tea by the fireside.
It is the winter of our love.

-Les Blough, december, 2001

(after the invasion)

More poetry by Les Blough


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