The Last Winter on the Lake

The last winter on the lake was mild—
a stillness prevailed, the lingering leaves
were silent as though scared—inside the
unmolested concrete core, the outward urge
of some frantic shadow, though through the
mist, unwitnessed, grey forms of things
made reconciling gestures—visitors in
previous years knew the mystic essence of
their conversation; one says, “Release me,
winter! This paralysis is my hell! let me writhe
and flow! give me my maker’s colour back!”
Yet mist responds, “Peace, you faithless,
winter’s work is at an end; its sparseness
has made you zealous for the spring.”

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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