Cold Comfort by PH Coleman

A crisp-rind new moon

slices open old memories

that bleed out starlight.

Walking over snow

scritching like packing peanuts,

mercury freezes.

Clouds of words in air.

Snowflakes grace the crowns of trees,

delicate and strong.

Talk evaporates.

A barred owl’s cry fills the woods

for loneliness lost.

Two birch, their bark stripped by wind,

nestle in the earth spring finds.

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PH Coleman lives in Vermont where, after years, he is still searching for the least things that make the most difference. Coleman taught chemistry at university and in high school for 15 years., before becoming a turn-of-the-century poet. His work has appeared in a number of publications in Missouri and Vermont, as well as online. The Green Mountains are full of ideas, and they are like a fine marathon without a finish line. His two dogs agree.