This snowy scene about is not for me:
Each high-piled post– a gravestone for the world
That sleeps beneath. And there, white head bepearled,
An arbor-vitae bows in grief to see
No life around except the Chickadee
Who hunches to himself. All mutely furled
His perky cry, because the sun is curled
Somewhere behind gray clouds, indifferently.
Let those who will , declcare the praises of
This empty landscape: –paint my own in green
With cotton clouds and deep blue sky above,
The whole a-teem with life, alert and keen.
All winter to me doesn’t mean a thing
Beside one singing bud that heralds–spring!
by Ray Romine Sunday, January 7, 1945
