Snow Buntings, First of November

Blown in on the first

November wind, you skitter

Before me, twelve white birds,

Same as every year, here

For a day to loose my month

Of sadness, twelve souls

Come back, perfectly white

Until you take flight low

Above the green-bled land

And spread your tail feathers

To reveal the hidden dark

Places where I marked you.

Let me swallow the seeds

Of grief, let this guilt

Die with me beneath snow and

Bury the curse of fathers and sons.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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3 Responses to Snow Buntings, First of November

  1. Sigh. This one took my breath the way a crisp Michigan morning can.
    kay

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