Cold Comfort by PH Coleman
A crisp-rind new moon
slices open old memories
that bleed out starlight.
Walking over snow
scritching like packing peanuts,
mercury freezes.
Clouds of words in air.
Snowflakes grace the crowns of trees,
delicate and strong.
Talk evaporates.
A barred owl’s cry fills the woods
for loneliness lost.
Two birch, their bark stripped by wind,
nestle in the earth spring finds.
PH Coleman was a chemistry instructor in the northeast for many years, finally mending his ways by becoming a turn of the century poet. His work has appeared in print and online. Presently, he lives tucked away in the Vermont hills, until things blow over. His two dogs have never edited his work.