When clear,
cold moons rise
On landscapes
locked in rigor mortisForgive me if I shall not stir awhile yet
Not when it is so cold outside
And all is hushed like a morgue
A world silent and laid out bare
For the scalpel and saw of frost
But very soon I will awake again
When the warmth and song returns
And nectar flows down yellow trumpets
As all about life gasps and rises up
From the melancholy slab of winter
Then I will wake from my hibernation
And capture the temperate airs
To rejoin the world undiminished