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NATURE’S FICKLE GAME

It seemed the wind had little
mercy, and in its bitterness
it howled and moaned like a crazed
banshee; twisting and tearing
at the trees until it ripped limbs
from their sockets, tossing
them to the frozen ground;
Then in a sudden mood change,
from tantrum to passivity,
the wind ceased, replaced
by a heavy silent snowfall.

Dawn’s first thin finger of light
illuminated the night’s destruction,
now mantled with sugar-white
drop-cloths. Tree limbs are bending
their backs under the weight
of their new white coats.
Leaves that had refused
to release their desperate hold,
now shiver as they shove noses
from beneath frosty blankets.
Last night’s fallen limbs
poke antlers through
the drifting mounds that built
around their broken bones.
Ermine beauty is everywhere
I look, and it will remain
so, until the sun, joining
in the game, smiles as it starts
its usual melt-down,
in a warm wet strip-tease.
Nature’s fickle game.

2/8/92 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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