Expedition of the Boreal
Expedition of the winds of the boreal,
the blanketing of the cold, cold
skin of the hills,
the shedding of the snows of the hoary clouds,
the teary eyes casting their sorrow and concern,
their apologies for their marauding,
their afflictions upon Mother Earth,
forced into action by the frigid waters,
blown by the winds of the boreal
and dropped to the terror stricken ground,
killing all living matter that flourished
in the warmth of summer’s sun,
but also artists such as they
who paint the hills
as white as angelic raiment
with their brushes that move with
the rhythm of the air
like the baton of the maestro
conducting a symphony of silence,
of the poetic air unseen but yet effective,
until it forms into matter
as the wind blows and the hills rejoice
and the snow adorns the barren earth.
O how beautiful and brutish thou art,
the snows from the expedition
of the boreal.
