© 2010 Peter Manda
"winter" from homeless fragments
What is that screeching
sound the bow makes
when it laments across the
violin, like vivaldi or stravinski
or is it beethoven in a pastoral
when the clouds are blue; gray
and the trees barren, reflecting those
skies their limbs covered in a
touch of white?
the empty houses in the Northeast
stand desolate while in the
suburbs the plain boroughs are
filled with the wealth of color...
is it, then, that we fear winter
because we fear to face its poverty?
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