Leftovers

Now nailed to the North Wind's door hang pelts of cloud --
The stallions of the wind race night-long over the sky
Printing hooves of diamond on black dust; and now the fly
And spider shrivel together, their silken shroud
Death-white with frost. Heart-fashion, the sumach bleeds
From ice-thrusts; the moon like a hunched gnome delves in the hill,
While pass to the Dis of no desire nor will
They who taste of wisdom her pomegranate seeds.


Bones of the Year, by Frances Kitchell Lamar


On a whim I crossed the road this morning and headed out on the opposite side of the marsh. I had never ventured out this way before, and the cold grey weather made the scene feel very moody. The scattered bones of a deer rather added to the effect.