I Hear the Winter

I hear the winter call my name in syllables bereft of breeze, ethereal through silent trees hypnotic in their leafless maim. In sheerest blue of morning freeze the shadows drape from rimy limbs while through my head a matin swims that beckons past the boundaries of culture's polished monotone. I'd ramble the denuded scape past hoary waters' icebound gape, to arcane winds my caution thrown. Across the dawning's lambent sill the winter calls. I hear it still.