The Four Seasons

written by

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ICICLES fall from trees, molten with age,
without memory - they stand aloof in their
nakedness - they limber;
like the gods terrified into silence,
like tall brooding deities looming out of the

The forest hugs them
carves them into stones,
Etches them into the slow
eastern landscape: rivers, hills
the slow running water,
times broken inscapes…

The willows are burdened with ice
the white shrouds of burial spread
upon the earth's ravaged face; the eyes
unseeing, the mouth unspeaking,
a gust of wind proclaims the anger of
immemorial ages; the cycle, the
eternal ritual of mystical returns -

The cypress - whitening -
boneless; wearing her best habit,
a pale green in the forest of ghosts -

And so I walk through this windless night
through the narrow imponderable road
through the silence - the silence of trees -

I hear not even the gust of wind
I hear only the quiet earth, thawing underneath;
I hear the slow silent death of winter -

where the sun is yellowest.
But above, Monadnock looms
like some angry Moloch, her
white nipple seizing the space

drained of all milk...

A she-devil beckoning to worshippers
seductive - her arm stretching outwards -
to this lonely pilgrim
lost in the mist:

Behold the school of wild bucks
Behold the meeting of incarnate
spirits -
Behold the lost souls bearing tapers
in rags of rich damask,
Down Thomas - the saint of
unbelievers - down the road to bliss
Down to the red house, uncertain
like a beggar's bowl hanging unto the cliff
of withdrawn pledges, where the well is

I have dared to live
beneath the great untamed.

To every good, to every
flicker of stars along the pine
To every tussle with lucid dusk,
To every moonlit pledge, to
every turn made to outleap
silvery pollen,

I have desired to listen - to listen -
to the ripening of seasons....

Winter 2001
This is ONE of a continuing sequence.

© Obi Nwakanma