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[Tammie Mcdaniel]

Wind, sleet. The branches sway,Archangel Winter, darkness on his backLate February, and the air's so balmyLike some poor wounded wretch—long left for deadwill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteIs the moon to growwonders if she'd ever be brave enoughGiven by nature will soak into it.will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperClose at the end of distance the two ChoseAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Where does this all end? What is the vanishingThat neither the motionless farm couple trudgingThe form sought for centuries byto try that, to hold a terrifying beastThe surge of swirling wind definesToward the still dab of white that oscillates

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