Rachmaninoff No. 1

Rachmaninoff No. 1

Sitting slowly by a frosted window,
Breathing in a chilled air.
Bitter sunlight gazes down
A crystal, icy glare

Skeleton tree, deathly thin
Quivering twigs in winded race,
Call out a sickly sounding,
Greeting winter’s face

Glassed grass beneath one’s feet
A broken chorus cracking.
Leaves adorn a dormant ground
A silent blanket, life found lacking.

Slightly bird calls filter in
A slight, belated warning
Stepping out into the fray of winter’s touch,
a cold unending scorning