The Snow, Slant Ghazal for Winter of 2085

image curtesy of The MET Museum Archives

by Linette Marie Allen

 

 

The snow, a canvas for branch-sprawl, brittle lines—

a quaking aria breaks them, shivering their bridal lines.

 

The year grows its teeth, gnashing at our stooped gardens,

gesturing the leaves we swore could defy bridal lines.

 

Newsprint burns in the hearth, its stories curling to ash,

embers like fireflies, tracing crisp air’s bridal lines.

 

A fox rushes the darkness, its breath a silver

flame,a fragile cipher etched along the horse’s bridle lines.

 

Once, we mapped love like this—scarred, a wintered root,

toughened by frost, stretching beneath bridal lines.

 

Outside, the wind laces its boots, grinding sidewalks

into soft-glazed splinters. Who whispers across bridal lines?

 

Time, your American hands fold as prayers, each

finger ghosting, the last touch tinging lost bridal lines.

 

 

 

 a canvas for branch-sprawl, brittle lines—

a quaking aria breaks them, shivering their bridal lines.

 

The year grows its teeth, gnashing at our stooped gardens,

gesturing the leaves we swore could defy bridal lines.

 

Newsprint burns in the hearth, its stories curling to ash,

embers like fireflies, tracing crisp air’s bridal lines.

 

A fox rushes the darkness, its breath a silver

flame,a fragile cipher etched along the horse’s bridle lines.

 

Once, we mapped love like this—scarred, a wintered root,

toughened by frost, stretching beneath bridal lines.

 

Outside, the wind laces its boots, grinding sidewalks

into soft-glazed splinters. Who whispers across bridal lines?

 

Time, your American hands fold as prayers, each

finger ghosting, the last touch tinging lost bridal lines.

 

 

 

 

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