Fragment; December 27, 2009

On grey
days when clouds bleed
out their life
on upturned faces;

when the skeletal trees
lament their lost glories shaking
defiant fists of bone
at the gods;

when hope fades thin
in the Winter's dark, silent,
nights amid the orchestra
of hissing rain
and scraping bone;

it is then - a propane flame
flickers
in the gloom
to the west wrapped
in fog and cloud; a figure,
hands grasping morning glory,
stands willing -
between you

and the night.

_{(Drafted For A Friend :: 12-27-2009)}