Winter’s address

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.
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.