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Winter
January 22, 2017
The peaks are the fangs of a beast
the valley his gaping mouth
if hungry or lonely this monster pouts
beseaching the sky to feed him snow
day after day his cries echo
afer a meal he weeps with glee
and the sky, no longer annoyed is free
the beast. content, sleeps eight months, around
but then comes fall and his roaring sounds
© Rachel M., Camarillo, CA
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I looked at the wasatch mountains and they looked like fangs, so I decided to write a poem about that abstract thought.