By Ishmael von Heidrick-Barnes
WORD’S OUT
Where drought hasn’t melted men
into three seasons
A shuffle of footsteps
in discarded leaves
warns
Winter is coming
Vines dig fingernails
into numb facades
What green survives
rusts into wind
The experienced
shutter
houses hunkered
down for hail
The non-indigenous
ignore umbrellas
hung from doorknobs
snow shovels
standing under eaves
The sun-blind
don’t cut back rotten limbs
ignore the word
made visible
by chilling air