(i) O winter, fain would I fireside write Homages to you in Odes If only there was shining light Enough to measure pulchritude. Yours is a non-objective art For even that most generous Bard Compared thee to an absent heart. The landscape rigor mortis hard Grave as death when lovers part Mortified and deeply scarred. An emptiness abounds in frost Sadder still than last year's nest.
(ii) You see me frozen as in flesh A barren film across the fields Core inside out there is tête-bêche A hibernating pulse concealed. I am a limbo for this earth To contemplate high solar heaven. On silent scaffolding of tree, the dearth Of bud conceives sublime, and wren When facing glaciation Sings hustle rustle of creation. It is not death this frost fair fest Just measured slumber, season's rest.
A dialogue poem for Sanaa’s Poetics: “The Blizzard of the Self” in which we are prompted to embody winter.