Music, Arts and Society
Before the Rain
Swirls, tributaries,
churn, remind us
winter remains.
Winter remains.
Tree tops,
Crows
anchored
Winds crow
Crows blow.
Window panes
So old,
branches blue,
brown-green
grey,
a tired look
into the future.
Branches are tendrils
with time,
dirtied,
slow paced,
hardly steady,
like drooped eyes
shallow tongue
tender chest
aching heart.
Strange day,
strange weather,
rather than marching,
marking time,
counting,
waiting.
Grey glimmers
turn to brittle rainbows
turn to fragile twigs
turn to creaks
scrapes.
Today, a nothing day.
At least a scream?
A break?
At least awake
the sleepers
from doldrums
of sleep?
What’s after?
Swirls, tributaries,
churn, remind us
winter remains.
Winter remains.

(Stephen Horenstein)
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