by
Steve King
©
2012
That
frigid season had come,
each
dawn with a shiver.
He
tended the bleak hours
with
all that habit could engender.
Neatly
pinioned in between
things
most felt and those unseen,
carnivore’s
howl of blistering wind,
roiling
sky full Pleistocene.
Despite
best efforts not to call
on
memories unfit for words,
his
ghosts still played a-foul in the air:
intoned
the rustle of dead leaves,
songs
of whithered birds.
