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.


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.

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