Coptic, cryptic, styptic rune:

Winter’s dark arithmetic.  

Clouds close in at noon

On blackened twig and stick, 

On snow grown in the underbrush.


Wheat pokes out of page-white plains,

Tundra muffled in the hush.

No detail of the day remains,

Just the wind and sleeping slush.


Erasure is at last complete:

Nothing here but fog and sleet.