The hatching tempest
drinks convulsively of
her voice
drowns in thunderous
wit the flimsy temptings
of his heart

Not even feathered hope
will oversummer her assail
nor provide respite from her sands

Ô, Enkindled Time...
Please! Please! Don’t forswear his shriveled ash!

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Against your snowy nape
he catches the reflection
of a withered mien
Blindfolded by the starch yet
thinking he’s enveloped by the starts
he’ll abandon his abode of solitude and freeze
and die

As every night,
when even sound’s asleep
The most terrible storms
overturn/run and take
his heartfilled eye

Forever encumbered by the window’s lie