A morning breeze can reach me still
slipping through this window sill
my bones absorb the turgid chill
but an inner flame, cold is loath to ****.

How can a flame be kindled though,
sitting in a winter bough?
No kind leaves remain to show
a way to melt life's hateful snow.

Below the world spins its web, builds its maze
and leaves me in this doubtful haze
still I can wait, despite frozen malaise
on a spark to reignite new compassionate days.