Winter here weeps the sky
beaten by bitter-tasting winds.

Dead decayed leaves scour the sidewalks
like ancient scrolls, collect rare
sensations from lost annonymous trees

That stand in naked idleness
their bare brittle branches as aged arteries
stab the air.

The wolf-howl in the wind warns birds
to renounce their sleeping quarters.
This is the slow,long language of winter

The dreary depressed face of the sky
the dead and dying leaves in the sound of sorrow
wash the night air a strange color.

Tomorrow will rise up and repeat itself
the falling leaves stain the daylight
alongwith the aged driven on by false hopes
an few options......
*