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My Landscape
The ochre grasses rise above
the snowy field. A mourning dove
is crooning songs of muted love.
My winter landscape is not grim.
The forest bordering the field
seems almost lavender, revealed
through fog. This is winter's yield.
My winter landscape is not grim.
The branches of the sycamore
are ghostly bare. A wild corps
of black birds, startled, call and soar.
My winter landscape is not grim,
By looking out I've come to terms
I can't negotiate. The berms
I crawl on lead at last to worms.
No winter landscape is not grim.
© 2004 Miriam N. Kotzin
"My Landscape" was published in The Vocabula Review, March 2004.
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