WINTER IN THE BOULEVARD
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HE frost has settled down upon the treesAnd ruthlessly strangled off the fantasiesOf leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like oldRomantic stories now no more to be told. The trees down the boulevard stand naked inthought,Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caughtIn the grim undertow; naked the trees confrontImplacable winter's long, cross-questioning brunt. Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depthsof the twigs?Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of thebirch?--It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves onthe sprigs,Sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh withtheir perch. The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.Like vivid thought the air spins bright, and allTrees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thoughtAwaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.
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