William B. Watterson Biography

I Winter

Days, nights, more days
stretch in a listless stream,
...

It rained the day she died.
Somber, stygian clouds crept across Beech Mountain
In the night, suffusing the swales between somnolent hills,
Drenching the ancient peaks, and we awoke to sodden skies.
...

Lightly skipping
up the steps
of a rustic beach cottage,
she could still hear
...

“My son, you’re only twelve years old, ” she said,
“And if I let you journey into town,
Someone might cut your throat or strike you down.”
But still the boy continually pled,
...

...