Early Winter
by Vaughn Neeld
The mailbox, leaning back on its sturdy post, waits, lonely,
above the still-unmarked snow on the country road.
In a nearby field, fugitive light from an overcast sky
gilts the shorn stalks that remain after the harvest.
A twisted, unclothed tree stands stark,
bark beaded with ice, branches clawing upward
as if beseeching intercession from the leaden sky.
In the distance, blue with chill, farm buildings huddle.
The scene speaks of aloofness, withdrawal, the turning of a back.
Be not deceived; note the open gate.
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