ACROSTIC

On the cutting edge

Of the flattened sage,

Across a windy ledge

The rushes rage;

 

Crisscrossed, prosaic,

They jut out stark

As Aramaic

In the falling dark,

 

Archaic writing

On the meadow white,

Cryptic lighting

On a snowy night,

 

Forgotten hints

Covered up in haste,

Dirty fingerprints

Which are at last erased.

 

 

 

NOTES ON ACROSTIC