By Annette Marie Hyder
An angel, colossal and brooding supine
on the ground
covering miles with one outstretched arm
looks as though it’s carved of marble
in the blue-saturated twilight.
White tongues of cold flame flicker
as they fall hissing
swelling the snow with more of the same
and silently adhering to the back of the great angel
they become so many feathers on his wings.
There is no copper serpent
no idol of beaten gold
no staff bearing almond blossoms
and weight untold.
There are no warm metals
when the angel of winter spreads his arms
and pulls all the small round globes
of warmth from the branches of the sky
and hides them in his robes.
Only silver shining
only silver can be seen
and the tarnishing to come.