Wednesday, March 24, 2010


by Gideon Burton

It is a shaken spice, a moist and sweet 
relief to slake the blandness of our souls.
It is a heavy ripened grain, the wheat
that in the ether grows until we’re whole. 
It is the feathers of our mothers’ prayers 
returned fulfilling which the angels shred 
as gossamer, as grace redundant, layers 
of frozen time as we lay still in bed.
It is the cracking of the darkest sky,
soft meteors, the billion stars descend;
all victims cease from aching, asking why
the dirt, the noise, the gross confusion ends.
    What had been frozen thaws beneath its coat;
    what weary, rests, while worries grow remote.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr -  bridgetmckenz

1 comment:

  1. I know how much you love the snow. There really is a quiet and soothing nature to it.