The sky sighed a distant thunder,
concrete clouds of dreary color;
Winter echoed caution to Spring, to sunder
hope of a promising Summer.
Wind lambasted evergreen paradise,
canopied a needled night sky,
hiding crime, fear, suicide;
hunters stalking paths learned by childhood rote.
All journeys end the same,
no matter the fable; no matter the moral,
where time sails still in the saline sea;
where time survives the brutal boreal.
The taiga birthed a tireless desperation,
bitten flesh of blackened frost;
token effigies whittled in contemplation of
jackpine, poplar, white birch and tamarack.
Nothing knows but the tundra,
who is beneath the pines,
consumed by the umbra.