Sitting alone on a chilled mound,
I miss the tulips in all their fired hues: red,
yellow, bronze, inked blue... soon, arms
will be wrapped in jackets of frost inviting
the self to bite on chipped flakes,
while migrant birds and corridors
of shivering trees melt.
No butterflies winging or grass fleeting,
All will stand like statues cloaked in white;
I gaze through my days on flamed maps
redesigning my past summer parades;
those exotic, saucy escapades now buried
in graves of dull- powdered vapor.
So now, the blistering wind returns
as Poseidon's heir drapes the wrists
of hunched pines hiding the sun.
How drab! But come near dusk, the sprigs
beckon a tune delicately relishing luminous
crystals humming through skyline, silver!…
a reflection of flurries pirouetting in a dance,
this, only in the alchemy of pearled winter spell !