The Sound of Snow

Crumbling timber ignites to smoke. 

No words left from the mound. 

Scattered bone, made pebbled ground. 

All roads lead to the same. 

An outcome spread far and wide. 

Sifting the sound of a hollowed voice. 

A smile, leering low 

Pressing its shape on limited time. 

Bend me, 'Oh Anchor! 

Drag me to the depths-- 

Where I am left at the cleft of eternal sleep 

Where nature drowns. 

In soft waters rolled: 

Pass me slow – under elm & oak. 

Where faceted bow strings pluck their arid sound. 

From a meadow, old branches sing... 

Instruments of mortal liturgy block the clouds. 

Playing its tune of resounding snow. 

Its resting notes freeze Tundra ground.