The Little Town of Tannenbaum The wind cuts the snow to pieces, days on end. Our mountain is a vast acceptance, looming such as that. With a language vested in burrowing and cloud, then such a poetry staffs the remainder, poised on the brink of a very word, to say nothing but these words. Then and version, light as a probable cause. So much so that we walked on. On to the summit, a clearing morning view. Excellent English, Truculent Cause, Bonded Onward, and Yeti, tall as a branch. The warm of what we carry makes distinction in the outer world * * * * * That Organic Material The dolmen is shock plentitude I heard that E died. Everything else is dash, closed, then a whiff of snow. Snow on the marsh, the pity of ducks in their land of water. E died, the alphabet had to remain. E is simple, fills appropriate spaces. Words include, when they can. A last word is vaulting. When we talk, we move to that last word. We wish to vaunt. E was great in some words, and turned some sentences around. E became Emma one day, but I do not have that key. The key can be simple, and a passing, and a when you are ready. Now, I have been to the marsh, before the snow fell. The snow is incredible, it covers anything. Billows of everything else preclude the shift from noting to E. E arrives in a sentence or word, and we let those times impend. If Emma dies, or everything, we take note. The note is E, rhymes with tree, fills the marsh during. Sentences are always complete, complete as the E in everything.     © Allen Bramhall