Why are sickly landscapes hallowed by yearly death?
The spiny, dusty, splintery earth
Is smothered with soft, frigid lifelessness
And looks better for it.
Is it still so in the robust places?
When gushing flowers, cushioned and slippery undergrowth
Are smothered by Jack Frost's pillow.
While the flame-licked high desert
Nestles into the cold angora shroud
That mutes the angles and bristles
And imparts a resplendent, pallid glow.