For a frosty January morning. From the archives:

This Too Shall Pass

by Timothy Birdnow

A bitter frozen morn
gray skies burst open as if they were torn
bleeding white on what's below
burying us all in the ice and the snow

Entombed in a white cold silent crypt
frozen angel where a man had slipped
six feet long and three feet wide
faintest of trails to where he'd slide

An icy wind blows the crusty drifts
into mountains, canyons and slushy cliffs
they grow and grow
to bury us all in the thundersnow

The gravediggers wait in their glee and thier greed
as the sky's white corpuscles hemmhorage and bleed
The street in silence like the grave
for no soul seems to be adequately brave
as to leave the warmth of their dark empty cave

None seem to have the fight to brave this world buried in white

Crystal souls in darkness take flight
as they flee the frozen sprites that dance in the gloomy blight

There will be no shining rainbow
when the storm rains down the thundersnow

But one day no more snowfall cries
one day the bloom shall re-arise
the sun will shine, the ice will thaw
the slushy ground will start to draw
the drifts will die and lose their mass
And we will know this too shall pass

Posted by: Timothy Birdnow at 09:46 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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