The hieroglyphs of winter
begin to etch themselves into the landscape.
Thin, bare branches are brittle words
that we pass our fingers over to read
like Braille or Ogham.
The cold rain, too,
is just another sign of being—
a symbol thrown against the ground
that we try again and again to interpret.
All it means
is that there is a fine, fine difference
between rain and thick rain,
and if you can read winter,
you know what I mean by this.
Christian Reifsteck’s poems and photographs have most recently appeared in The Loyalhanna Review, Written River, and The Wayfarer. He teaches in central Pennsylvania and Europe. View more of his work at illuminatedmanuscript.wordpress.com.