Winter Tale

The eternal blue is waking from its rest –
A fragile frost of sliding, endless skies.
The sigh of that great Star which men call Wormwood
Now falls upon the forest in surmise…

The sun grows cold in hands that are benumbed,
A snowfall veils the temples, dense and deep;
The dew upon the cheek is drying up,
And leaves behind the crystals that it weep.

The houses and the gardens sleep in snow,
The heart's own voice is lucid, soft, and spent,
But from the fervent gaze of that same Star
A verse, molten, through the throat will vent.

January 2003