Feathery pewter clouds
Are kicked up like ash
In the smoldering embers
Of the dying winter horizon.
It is difficult to imagine
Being blind to the light of day
Until we are truly without sight
In its oddly sudden departure.
It is not yet the longest night,
But my soul still feels the murmur
Of a cooling,
trembling earth,
fearful of her final moments
Of virescence.
Oh mother,
How can I ease your ...