The Oldest Season

The eye’s doors blown open
swing in a cold wind,
feeling’s empty rooms reflect
the vacant yard filled with
debris of summer stalks,
the snow runs in white tongues
along the fence to silence
the stooped grass with blizzard
talk. Familiar guideposts
sink in this Arctic smother, only
poplar trees signal directions I can
be sure of. A strange snowfield
empties the mind of all but
an oak leaf tumbling downwind,
nothing else moves in this
wildfire of winter storm.
Chickadees shelter in husks of
thought, heedless of doors
swung wide on a barren season.