Winter, fighting surrender, grinds stubborn
claws into sopped ground here, demands raw trees
remain stripped bare, leaving our spring stillborn
somewhere in those far frozen fields. Maybe
I saw it lying in pain on that aged,
ash-gray slab of ice by 71
as we rolled toward Columbia.
Some sage
camped in that chapel near campus, the one
with sad carpenter’s mosaic, might say
weather’s been framed. It’s loveless chill humans
force on themselves through fear: terror at play
deep in our hearts, earth absent one true man
or woman who will chance honest love. Where
are you tonight? I lie alone, out there.
Roger Armbrust
March 19, 2013
