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.