During those gentle hours of work, I wait,
For winters paradise to start his show,
Lifting my existence and rise up straight,
I will not lie dormant or melt like snow.

And wait under that wan light of winter,
I end work to dance, writhe, for no reason,
Being in heaven, as cold days splinter,
A winter’s day might seem short, this season.

We remember, as summer distillations are gone,
Leaving debris and mayhem in its wake,
It’s beauty bereft and days now badly drawn,
Winter’s tyranny looking at summer’s take,

Cold and unfair, cunning in what it does,
Me, a prisoner pent into that icy grip.