Branches bow
and nod heavy
with white
frozen wet wings
as ice cream coned hedges
take winter’s first lick
on a snow covered
crisp crackling dawn.
The house is quiet.
Ghosts are asleep.
Not even dad
can haunt me in this space.
Yet, as I flush
another poem
through this vein,
I know nothing
is gentler…
or scarier… than this snow
that reflects
the pale blue light of dawn.
By Shawn R. Jones 2015