The bland hue of the earth,
It is set in the dulled green of spruce,
Cornflower sky,
The birches are grey now,
They sway in the dead wind.
Hillsides pale maroon,
Winter's only red,
Meet the white horizon,
In the fusing of earth and sky.
Musky green fir,
Creaking in the cold,
The snow has turned to dusty icy
And is flecked with cone seeds.
Knotted dry monkshood catches the bootlaces,
Of all that stumble across the grey land.
Null and thirsty screeches wail in the valley,
A wrenching noise in tired ears.
Sticky clouds ooze in the sky,
Chapped lips licked over and over,
Begin to bleed,
And now copper I will taste forever.
Trudge up over the hillside that is too steep,
Back home and into the house,
Now asleep from all the sludge and wind,
I will not soon go out again.