No voices falling on the braking waves
or scent of laughter lingering in the breeze
to help these lonesome oats go find their graves;
come-easy winter, glowing as you please.

Snow angels spread their wings on sugar sands
 'til tepid water washes them no more
their halos thinned to solitary strands -
white pelicans now hovering near the shore

survey forsaken coasts of fishing sprees,
perhaps considering what has come and gone.
Are they afraid (as we) that they may freeze
when warm December winds find us alone?

Anne Bryant-Hamon
© December 9, 1998