Winter; from the North, from the East.
Chill frigid frozen wastes of weather.
The weight of a season’s death hangs
over our shoulders, in our hair, on our breath
breathing out, breathing in
our own death-like state of being
of burning heat with a touch like ice
with temperature raised
from a deep glacier’s heart
and rivers running south
and the pounding, pounding
of incessant drums of a fell foe
besieging your beautiful fortress
with cloaking, choking vines of aching agony.
O, for the sweetness of bitter lemon
mixed in dripping honey from a sturdy spoon
in the heady steam of solace
and the dream, delirious dream, of spring.
Picture Credit: http://data.whicdn.com/images/43050992/original.jpg