If the Blackbird Can Sing in the Dead of Winter
Poetry

If the Blackbird Can Sing in the Dead of Winter

It’s been a post-apocalyptic winter around here,the sun smothered by ash-gray rags sodden with snow,the snow wrung out on our heads by the bony handsof Arctic winds. Some ancient ice god wants us dead,judging by the icy daggers he hangs around our houses.At night, he presses his face against the black windowsand claws at our…