Snow On The Hills Affirm The Glow Of Frozen Winds

Burbank was covered in thick and placid
frost;

Shadows off the glow of the forlorn crags were soft and weeping along the distant ice;

dusting the
furrows of forgotten
rains; and falling upon

windmills of the giants, who gave up on their Arks; certain that Noah was again
Drunk and Angry.

Forgiveness of wild skies, that considered the rainbow
reasonable remains of

The Inert and The Faithful carpenters of the night, who toiled until the rows

of two began wandering down Melrose and Parkplace; guided by guise on Sunset and

Happenstance, that watched as the final couples; the giraffes and the young calves,

who we’re burning
and guilded as they passed in the bright golds of the

Arabian vendors, whose Mercedes were coated
in the slick and haloed

wings
of the snow
before the flood.

The first snowman in eighty years was smiling through dripping coals, in the

last light that met the high currents
of air

with a brilliant
and
curving spectrum.

Don Quixote marches;
selling silver lamps
in silence;

as life leaks
from the forefathers
gently spinning fans.

The last Noah will know the last raincloud, over the last
skyline, above the last

couples, caught in the last
light;
to see the last sands

and
cry over
their glow.