POEM - On A Winter Morning

On a Winter Morning
The Sky turns into bleach
And blanches great branches
Which gives the hemlocks sagging limbs -
And grays the tops of houses like old heads -
And stiffens everything
With hardened compact snow –
So flat and wide yet so wild
Where does all that color go?

Pale, shadowless light that
Becomes a single finger
On the lips of a mother-
This holy shhhhh to a child,
Where does all that crying go?

Somewhere beneath this hardness
Hides the deepest green of youth.
Somewhere beneath the missing
Things, lies the softest truth.

M C Biegner
1/1/2006