Unseasonable
The storm moves East,
Cold, indifferent,
Leaving empty cornfields
Full of snow and night.
The early green of spring
Lays stunned and stiff
Beneath the drifts,
The moonless sky,
The pale reply of distant stars.
From such dark,
The early light
Unwraps the contours of a house
Now bound with snow
And blind with sleep.
Its eyes once bright
With peonies;
Reflected gold forsythia
Now cast in cold brocade
And inlaid in the snow.
The house receives the light,
And in return, the light reveals it.
Falls dimly on the monolith,
And counts down rows of bricks.
A winter’s cave begins to blush into
A barn, and all that’s winter, murk and shade
Becomes a farm.
Charles Webb is a child psychologist, who lives in Wilmington, Delaware with his wife, two sons and a dog, Roscoe. Dr. Webb began writing poems in high school in the late 70s , and continued through college in the early 80s. He has only recently begun submitting to literary journals, and has had a handful of poems published in The Broadkill and BellaOnline Literary Reviews.