How the Winters Once Were
That cold green streak
that was morning
had nothing in common
with us.
And the proud plumes of chimney smoke
rose straight up.
To some god who liked
such vertical movements.
rose straight up.
To some god who liked
such vertical movements.
And the scrunching underfoot!
Oh that indescribable scrunching:
Oh that indescribable scrunching:
no one could approach unheard
that was for sure.
that was for sure.
