Sunday, January 26, 2014

Rodak's Writings: Winterscape



No majestic mountains here,
only tiers of rocky hills, hackled up
with scragged pine and deciduous bristle.
A low growling signifies first to the eye.
A high sky bathes the plentiful roadkill
on the salty brown shoulder in useless light.
I am an ancient, brittled by sedimentary regret,
my mossy soul intractably tuned to the icy north.