the cold has drifted in
settling a piercing quiet
over the bare turned field
with a keen and muted air
season worn clods rise in crumpled rows
turned by the fall of the blade
their heady fragrance
sealed within frosty coats
and in the lowered copse
a twist of naked limbs
with ambitions for the sky
are asleep to my presence
still, as I walk amongst them
a chorus from their remnant flesh
chilled and crisped
murmuring at my feet
there is comfort in this path
that leads to long known havens
comforts that cannot be aged
though our many winters may try
paulhp poetry 