Winter Games

by

Crystal Dawn Allen

He was hauling in the haunted harvest.

There were whispers that he knew
the sign you must sign
in the air, with your fingertips,
and this prevented him from being allowed
to carry weapons.

He knew to gather witch's broom
from a dead tree with all the ceremony.
But he was not a man of ceremony.

We saw him once under the large oak,
the one that groans at night
the one that chills when it passes us;

We saw him once by the river
feeding deer from the palms of his hands.
Now we see him with the harvest
and it is well past the date.

I could decipher the leaves,
count the pine cones,
notice the marked white stone missing from the ash...

Then I would know how much snow
and when
and who would die this winter.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Guns in the ghetto
by: James Bredin
from: Toronto, ON, CA

To visit all of Crystal Dawn Allen's poems, click HERE

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