Old Snow

The waves are growing towards the sky,
As quiet as a breath’s reprise,
The amethyst but a residue,
Lingering from the recent sun.

As if none revived these dormant seas
Of third day’s snow with sheen gone dry,
The luster of this patch long spun,
Its enchantment holds but few.

The season is far from begun,
Shadowy patches no longer new,
Evaporated is the sense of ease,
Left only with a half-hearted, “Why?”

Perhaps the jejune that I drew
Reminds me of what should be done.
In this plain of sameness, void of try,
Join me as I leave for the trees.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre