Cold’s white mission frosts unfolding hills, muting the vanilla valley.
Crusted ice crystallizes prairie grasses into ivory luminescence
as darkness genuflects with subtle inklings toward dawn’s precipice.
Soon, Daystar swallows the moisture of night,
and flocked conifers melt, trickling wet rivulets
between bark’s incongruous trivets waiting for
the murderous onslaught of humans,
who arrive each year laden with hatchets and chainsaws,
chomping at the bit, eager to usher in December.
Brenda Warren 2011
Process notes: Len and I had a roadtrip through Montana yesterday. We started early, and I wrote most of the piece in the morning, after driving through the Helena valley. Later in the day we drove through the Little Belt Mountains east of Great Falls, and saw vehicles laden with pine and fir trees, as families harvest them for Christmas. I finished the piece this morning.
This is a piece for the Sunday Whirl. The words were challenging this week, be sure to check out the work of other poets over at the Whirl.