into the cold

she waited for the unlit dark
to tempt all life from its burrows,
to trace sheepish across her grey breast,
to wake the songstress from drowsy.

the branches curled in green,
a robin cursed the snowfall,
weapons were all laid to rest,
the anvil by the hammer.

and summer wished for solitude
among those bitter seasons,
and cold had all but died,
whipped into fever
too many times -
she was lent and cursed
alone, all reflection upon the glassy water.

i went upon her like a thirst,
to lap dirty and tall
her icy honour.
we were guests,
oaks together.
i filled her numb small eye with
the tracks of stumbling people,
their red boots turned upwards to the failing sun.

dying elapsed
and broke
her plain song,
the moon was all
a twitter.
god-given, these times of muted rest
to open slakes of unfelt grace,
to steep the wine,
drop the chatter.

holy,
this aeon speaks

of winter.