title

Unfathomed shape treading a misty trail,
bloodhound that makes no sound following souls,
with icicled hood, at each step, full sail,
the reaper stiffens victims, filling holes.
His scythe, winter’s slicing metallic vein,
rattles as it falls still limbs white with snow,
scattering the cold interwoven skein
from boughs rankled as their raw fibers show.
Grim advocate for what is seldom known,
that life's form is like a spiral seashell,
a tunnel in which crystal clouds are blown
as faint memories of a rhythmic knell
to land, dissolve in dust, and sprout anew
warmth in colors from a petal outgrew.