THE DRIVE HOME
Crystalline drifts,
Opalescent skifts,
Whirlwind down
From the cerulean
Capricorn night.
The wiper blades sweep
Desperately trying
To clear the glass frosted
Of the snowflakes
Patchwork mosaic,
As the car plows toward home
On the old country road.
Passing slowly,
Sleeping, fruitless trees
That shiver and bend,
Inferior to the weight
Of winter’s immaculate,
Ever cold blanket.
Hypnotic,
Poetic,
Erotic is,
The season so sureal,
Sent forth
From the genteel fingetips
Of seraphic design.