Arthur Krestov A WINTER WALK

I'm walking. Snowdrifts. The dead forest juts out approaches

With motionless branches into the depths of the ether,

And the sun's cardinal purple cope rather

Spreads underfoot. And the hot crust crunches.

Here the blue spruce trees stand tufted, every inches

Covered in a papal pluvial blanket of snow.

Nature sleeps. I walk, tiredness  wearily slow

Shaking off the ceremonial attire from the branches

Let's slowly descend into a deep ravine,

Where the bridge blackens, icy with cold.

There, purple pines piously serve cort

The  Episcopal Mass over the stream divine.

The