Winter is the meadow;
Salt field of glossy hew,
Sparkled dew upon the flat
Of dusty dream that could not
Have chosen to come through.
There is some sound; a wing
That flutters rough.
Raw is the cold that scrapes
And bends bows and bones
Into cathedrals high.
Runic with breves, an echo
Is here among me, among my
Shape in the white; my grave in sight,
Lucky am I to be
With such company of Death and Living.
The sky goes farther than the light;
What music is here, with so much
Stillness and air; what hasn’t happened
To me in a year
That hasn’t happened to all people.
Why does the wind howl, as
Cymbals clashing, waves crashing;
The bosom of an empty
Is where I came from,
And where I shall go.
But, this day, with all the bright,
Roiling and bashing, breathing my body
Into frozen magic, into frightful fits
Of singing; Winter, is the meadow,
And I have arrived,
To the homeland, grinning.
A new satchel full of stuff:
Starlights and wonders, curios and
Hopes, young fears and old ponders.
And, I am sailing again,
Into something unknown,
Praying it shall love me.