by Jim Mcinvale

Created on: January 30, 2011

Winter’s House

Dirty lies December snow

Under January skies,

Whose waxen suns with pallid glow

Lay gray glaze down

On the lawns and grounds

Of a Kansas town

Where winters come to die.

A hunter framed in yellow panes

- He’s lost the trail of reason –

Fights to quell the sirens’ bane

But contemplates

What in the next room waits,

A mesmeric fate:

His hunting gun in season.

Learn more about this author, Jim Mcinvale.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.