Winter People - Poem by Val Morehouse
Faces of natives turn inward
like talk in uncertain throats.
Small replicas of life eclipse
inside shuttered eyes,
narrow horizons between stones,
and still ponds, frayed with
pitchpine and knotted oak,
tinder of witches.
Underneath pewter skies they winter
through fog where only ice is genuine;
And it spare as a puritan,
with the color of silver.
Comments about Winter People by Val Morehouse
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You