Poem: January Storm

 

January Storm

 

birches bent of habit,

the prayerful turned mendicant,

rosaries keen of ice-willowy

shine.

 

they count the beads

with fingertips hounded by grace,

flake by flake, so kind

to reave the birches’ bones.

 

let us all pray

for these broken nuns,

whose splintered wounds

 

seem the muzzles of dogs,

the mouths of jackasses,

the snouts of werewolves

laughing into the guffaw of a howl.

 

wherever they sway,

wind harpies them. 

no matter who they beg, or ridicule,

a swoop of zephyr rises up

to tug them down.

 

on and on,

beautiful yet wrecked,

savage from hope. 

only despair awaits

in tranquility.

 

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