Close-lipped, the circumstance in which you fell,

tightly concealed beneath the snowy breast

of a dewy, fawn-eyed Winter morning…

fingers clenched in eternal slumber’s jest.

You awake to the noise of midnight’s play,

where blackbird shadows cross your frozen arms

and midsummer lingers in stiff-carved sleep,

and soothes you with the nightly moon-song charms.

Twilight is the season for fire-fly light,

while damply pressed across your broken feet

the cat is murmuring of birds in flight

and the burn of stars is so soft and sweet.

Columbines, wild, feast in your shining hair,

sheltered by the dimmer lights of new Spring

who’s worn her dress of green with tender care,

preserved the flow of honey, braved bee sting.

Fall is a time for love and love-making,

Autumn’s wild crown all trussed about your head...

like the gold shore where the wave is breaking,

like the flowers reserved for the new dead.

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