View from the top of the house
By Krystalli Kyparissi (Glyniadakis)

​

(Preparations for snow ongoing)

The voices of birds hang in the air

like little jewels – 

or whatever it was that Anne Carson wrote so aptly.

The smell of logs burning

as preparations are made to defend

the unaccustomed land from the armies

of winter about to crash down in flurries of snow.

The sound of hammers chipping

away at last-minute arrangements,

cockerels squalling commands, gather round

gather round or be perished –  ’tis the trees

that stand to attention. The sea,

wine-black, as Homer saw it, stretches

like a sleeping beast under a  broken sky

of gold and grey. The cold

is closing in. Gather round, gather round,

says the breeze, I am about to metamorphose

into a howling hyena, teeth tight and sharp,

a wine-black winged Boreas

of clear star-studded skies, dragging

behind a daughter of unknown intents

and devastating beauty. Her heart

will eventually be pierced by spring-

bearing Artemis in a fit of jealousy; but till then

gather round, fire the logs, secure the hammers.

The voices of birds shall hang in the air

like chimes of spring.