Wintersong

Recall a song of winter,

see it silent, beneath
these frozen river waters
that no hand can break;
now known untouchable.

Whistle then its
remembered tune

of a winter branching out,
and set it atop the trees
into charcoal smudge silhouettes,
that later the spring buds
will draw out in colour.

And if those blossoms
you know will never come,
melt a song of winter,
and let memory decide
where the flowers are,

where they can rest.

-

For

James C. Hartsell
‘Wintersong’
who died recently.

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