Class is in session. This month we look at metaphor in a poem about winter. For those who still hate poetry, I offer this. I hate winter, but putting that in a creative form helps me accept the inevitable. This piece appeared originally in one of the first issues of Nebraska Life magazine, and was later included in my book, Ground Tied.
The Outlaw
Old Man winter rode in yesterday
Astride a pewter wind that galloped free,
Whose frosty heaving flanks bore evidence
Of cruel spur tracks raking carelessly.
Behind a ragged herd of tumbleweeds
He lashed his quirt and cursed the hollow sky,
Broke the tawny meadow’s gentle heart
And hung her wild rose legends out to dry.
The willow’s golden tears have all been spent.
Half dressed, and gaunt, she shivers in the cold
While in sheltered coulees cedars murmur
And round the patient hills, her shame is told.
And yet, today beside the frozen creek
I chanced upon a rare and precious thing.
A yellow feather nestled in the grass
Spoke ancient trills of larks, in praise in spring.