Misted Landing's Victory

The sleet spread like fingers across the blot of sky,

Tapering, like a skeleton trace, its oblong blob scratch of water, scarring the windshield, thusly -

More tears across a charcoal landscape of smoke wisps and huddling howling, its icy nearness

Of Season,

Sliding close.

The tap tap tapping of taps increased, as the temperature dropped, and the water's rhythm

became

A "dance macabre"against eagle sky time venture, a hesitant, dark brood messenger of apology betwixt intruded rage storm sky territory, signalling Death, nonetheless.

And yet! - amidst the shimmering vistas of exploding clouds - a blot of blue;

Only orbits of hope can seem, then, as these moments show themselves:

Sweet surety of scope, and flight, and hope intermingled,

As each and all winged prayers whoosh forward, hurtling

Towards themselves; a hopeful blot, annointed not as blight,

But Bird, life honored,

Again.





D. Nevills

Fur

This grey rain, which swirls and wails, beyond these walls, bemoaning the long darkness

Until its rebirth, short months away,

Is harbinger.

And what of? I will scoff at this darkness, only eye glow held against misery;

I shall be your spring, first, lit as I am, amidst the folds and comforts here,

And, drawn such, languid and longing,

Suggest honey upon honeyed, warmed and liquid, glass reflected as it is

in this resting time of winter's ice vista.

You shall be - and me,

Mellowing with the we, until (such-like and sometimes),

It is suddenly us,

Bloomed.

D. Nevills Nov. 15, 2008