A Fable Told by Winter
Each year, the groundhogs froze
to fall like icicles upon stone
in a symphony of broken crystal.
Soon, only Punxsutawney Phil remained.
It was a year of no shadow,
with the cast scent of black eyed Susan
and upturned soil.
Winter though was implacable as the glacier,
as death itself, for Winter lived in every grave.
At the moment of decision, it draped
Phil with the sewn shadows of his fallen brothers,
and Pennsylvania was blotted from the Earth.
The clouds gave command, and snow coursed
like a baying pack of hunting hounds
across open meadow. Spring was brought down,
a panting hare beneath a flurry of white teeth.
Her blood spreading in frozen droplets of red
corn poppies mellowing to hibiscus stains
in the ever and always gray morning.
Each year, the groundhogs froze
to fall like icicles upon stone
in a symphony of broken crystal.
Soon, only Punxsutawney Phil remained.
It was a year of no shadow,
with the cast scent of black eyed Susan
and upturned soil.
Winter though was implacable as the glacier,
as death itself, for Winter lived in every grave.
At the moment of decision, it draped
Phil with the sewn shadows of his fallen brothers,
and Pennsylvania was blotted from the Earth.
The clouds gave command, and snow coursed
like a baying pack of hunting hounds
across open meadow. Spring was brought down,
a panting hare beneath a flurry of white teeth.
Her blood spreading in frozen droplets of red
corn poppies mellowing to hibiscus stains
in the ever and always gray morning.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson