A Gratitude 

Those fading pickets of winter,
when thin, unrecoverable time
all too easily buried down swift
to forgetfulness, as white snow 

solely stood for the mass of itself,
dormancy in every personal crutch
until presence redefined
through barricaded color, distal 

by stillness, like pale windows
girded with embittered ice. It was
only the rations of song, native
waters of mountainous blood, 

to remain pliable script within,
to hold fast through the limits of life,
to grip the adamant heart brought
with the sun burgeoning shadows.