Our Wintered Way Through Evening, and Burning Bushes Along It
(Where only the evergreens whiten...)

Winterflaked ashes heighten
in towers of blizzard.
Silhouettes unseal an outline.
Darkness, like an absence of faces,
pours from the opened home;
it seeps through shattered pine
and flows the fractured maple.

Perhaps it is the essence senescent,
dreamculled from the sleepers,
it soaks upon this road
in weather-born excess.

Or perhaps the great Anti-Life
learns to paint with a vengeance,
to run an icicle down the gargoyle's eye.

For properly speaking,
though no one can confront himself in toto,
I see your falling sky, gone gods,
as in a smoke-filled dream of ancient statues burning,
soundlessly, down to the ground.

(... and never the everwhite's green.)

Roger Zelazny