Ravens in winter
ravens hang out
in dead hope of an ox
full of news and folly
which will keep them all winter
full of midnight
settling into a bed thin as a purse
Poems on the topic: winter
Poems on the topic “winter” on Poets.by.
Winter came and went
last night the white
kiss of winter
an owl in two or three places
two or three idle people
and you bigger than fear
like a bonfire in the street
In winter
in black and white
I forgot how to see
and how to live
I bled at the saddest news
that we may have continuing summer
The fall of winter
water where ice
is the expected fur
I fear winter
will be undone
the great glass maker
will not deliver us
the company will profit
big with child
but a bear will get thin
in his amber house
Taking pains
I have survived the winter pain
the wind pain
the wish pain
but I find I cannot write
without a pain great as two stones
or a rusted bed
Bean counter
work is her bark
unhappy for the future
her thin hand
like a rose full of winter
our queen of accounts
Under the sign of Janus
The way the snow returns to the sky
is far more painstaking than the way it falls.
Near the end, it turns from ground to figure,
from canvas to paint. It scales the ladder
of its own self-effacement.
So the snow withdrew into a clef-shaped cleft
& waited for its cue. This winter could go
either way.
The witch hazel measured itself against an oak.
I want to be a tree, it sang, when I grow up –
A bird perch,
An insect metropolis,
A gallery of lichens above,
And below, a husband to fungi.
True, I am all these things already,
But not as a tree.
Bedding
little to whistle about
in her winter linen
like a cold surgeon curing us
of all unnecessary dust and ease
Parasitic
a bad night for fleas
the weather cold as winter
all over my body
the poor go out only on Sundays
good-natured about the privileges of power
to itch and tick and eat
at any time
Islanders
the old men of islands
never discover ships
observe the sea
only for an hour
talking of thrifty living
and the winter ice
Hail from the chief
a little winter and summer rise within
and me in the business of anger
I might say anything severe
like a simple rogue
like a troubled king
I sing of the plots against peace
Hibernal
what fear at every cough
in the coffee house
the poorest body
must be a winter
made of a hundred fish
with snow at the bottom
the dead come to life
flesh hollow as wax
they inhabit
the violence of the winds
and no dog but a wolf
could help us take joy
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