Late Winter

Here I stand and take it in, this field stacked high with fiercest white, dim ground flecked with pools of moonlight, or clouds of noon pile despair unending, and cords of buttery sun dance off the prospect of light. A world locked in teeth of peace-starved time; fog of despair shrouds those who thrust their minds toward warm air and walks over dreams of life stripped bare by winter’s knife. Hope flutters to reality as homeless birds to the wrong nest; rays of radiance peak and drop on wings of fertile crest. Why winter and its whitewashed walls which wring the wonder of life so dry, and snuff the flow of blazes that glow in mortals’ eyes? We are wanderers all, lacing lands, dragging our souls: sheer survival satisfies the pangs of sorrows full, but might we look around and see this shell of bondage that even we run the mighty course just to be surrounded with things from which we beg to flee? Be still. The wind knocks snow upon my face, the cold plummets spirits low as a grinding, brooding bass. I stand in fear, yet know what’s clear: revival shall come on wings of joy to this time-forsaken place; come to sweep the chains and bind the air of times unkind.