POEM: Winter Dusk

Stalk-stubbled field dusted white.
Four in the afternoon,
yet drifting into night.
How’s dark descend so soon?
 
Visible breath eddies
from lips dry and cracked.
Shoulders shrugged up ready —
cold collar cataract.
 
Light of low sun passes
through the barren hardwoods.
Moving like molasses,
people wear all their soft goods.

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