The Year

IA STORM of white petals,
Buds throwing open baby fists
Into hands of broad flowers.

IIRed roses running upward,
Clambering to the clutches of life
Soaked in crimson.

IIIRabbles of tattered leaves
Holding golden flimsy hopes
Against the tramplings
Into the pits and gullies.

IVHoarfrost and silence:
Only the muffling
Of winds dark and lonesome—
Great lullabies to the long sleepers.