Sun and Snow
I tried to pinpoint what has truly changed in me, but I found no better way than to show you who I was. This is my before-Christ poetry, written in Iowa when the Lord first delivered me out of Egypt.
Winter is hateful, nothing but cold
she takes away the color,
gone with all kinds of hopes,
like trampled slush,
still,
as the sand hardens the chill.
Crows are the bald tree’s leaves
flutter and squeak
no complacence in their sound
Are they missing the autumn as I am
Do they feel sorry
for their blackness
like I’ve been tired of permanence
in the lust for things that won’t last
to last
Why the apocalypse waits so long
as the autumn has gone
the epilogue is cruel for being late,
in the days when we were happy
I’m a prisoner
Jail is the past
where diamonds blaze
like summer
gold
overthrow the sun