John J. Coughlin


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Winter

John J. Coughlin, 1999

Autumn winds are dying
As winter rears its head.
Soon the land will sleep again
In the silence of the dead.

The gray sky seems a blanket.
The golden trees now bare;
Their branches reach out to the sky
To grasp the misty air.

Dark browns replace the orange
And grays replace the blue
Soon snow will change this landscape
As the spiral dance holds true

The silence will be welcomed
By a solitary crow.
An eerie song of mystery
That few will ever know.

For winter keeps its secrets,
The ones not hard to hide.
The answer's all around us,
But the question sleeps inside.

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