Masquerade
Shapes shift in the long darkness
of winter’s front porch.
“Is it time yet?” rustle the crisped leaves
as they skitter around and around in anticipation.
“is it time yet?” groan the stark trees,
their gnarled, grasping fingers
clawing the ragged hem of the grey clouds.
“Soon” breathes the drifting snow.
“Soon” chime the falling ice crystals.
“Soon” sighs the gate to the underworld.
Light fades, colours melt, night throws
his velvet blanket,
“Now” the blanket snaps.
“Don your disguises and walk.
The masquerade has begun.”
#312
Linda Studley 