The Aftermath

Icicles melt like cold drops of blood
from naked roofs, clogged gutters;
they splash into puddles and disperse
with sounds that hush in the frost.

Backyard trees lay motionless;
they stretch diagonally,
divide the raw lawn, and sleep.
Look how they carry

the weight of snow, beautiful mounts;
for hours, it falls, it settles in the arms
of an oak and a maple, making the bark
tear outwards, like fresh fruit peels.

This is the sacrifice of nature,
the sound of quiet death.
These are lazy limbs that lost the fight
against untimely affliction. 

Listen to the aftermath—
souls passing by, saying, "farewell, goodnight."