Still Life

Silence is the music of winter

Still life is the present it brings, like

Frost, the ice that clings

to what remains of autumn’s leaves

Drupes, radiant and cardinal red,

thriving on a hardy evergreen

Waterfalls, frozen by an easterly wind,

just aside Tower Bridge

Mistletoe, thrush-seeded and abundant

in bare branches of a hawthorn tree

Inside, friends arrive

in search of warmth,

a salve for chapped cheeks,

and gather in the parlor

where three red candles

rest amid river rock, aglow

in a slate grey fireplace

Yes, silence is the music of winter and

Still life, the present it brings