The Fifth Season

by Robert E. Petras

Misty snow dabs pale make-up
upon the brown stubble.
The cattle trough is drained,
the creek bed dry.
Through gauze of white
an island of headstones appears,
gray, flat, canted,
wreathed inside spires of iron.
Steam rises from the fresh, warm soil,
the grave open like a wound,
silent, hollow, seeded,
awaiting the harvest of the fifth season.
A crow caws.