Thursday, December 6, 2012

Snow Country Weavers By James Welch

A time to tell you: things are well.
Birds went south years ago.
But one returned, a blue-wing teal
wild with news of his mother's ego.
Mention me to friends, Say:
Wolves are starving at my door,
The coldness drives them from their prey,
No meat can be sought from forest floor.
Spiders busy weaving threads
to bandage up the day, and more,
Those webs were filled with words
that tumbled messages into wind.

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