Saturday, February 23, 2013

A Frigid Sin

by Jim Rapp

Yesterday’s storm left the pine tree weighted
with an inch or two of snow.
Its needled branches, oft by bird song freighted,
carry now their burdens low.

But wind and squirrel soon will clear a path,
each delighting to bestow,
with swishing tail or sudden blast, a bath,
poured down the neck of those below.

So I indict you, Wind, so cold that pine trees shudder
‘til their limbs are bare again,
and you, his furry friend, who delights to frisk and judder;
both are guilty of a frigid sin.

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