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.
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