Winter is always wintering
It covers up its wilderness
The hour before bedtime and the minutes
It freezes bodies in the pantomime of quietus
A flicker of breath.
Fogging the darkness is the only sign of life,
Reaching out and pulling back.
Everything is prevented from blooming
Except in the flash fires that burn a kingdom
Around periwinkle cold skies,
A cry escapes — deafeningly silent.
He remembers her eyes were like ice:
The crop of tears hanging heavy from the tree.
Harvested, homes are made
That melt in Spring.