Western winds whipping with a will
Restless rains taking refuge among the wren
You're on a running rally all on your lonesome
Gallantly exploring the pallet the elements deigned this morn
The ghosts dance, their wispy waltz shattering our heavy hoof-prints
Mosey-on 'round the bend your eyes will lend.....
This scene, near winter's end --in pastel golden air, the shadows turning themselves to where-without mass.
Hold your mouth aghast,
Breathe gently of the metallic merriment, soak it up.
Take it with you as you go.
Feast your eyes on the fresh diamond formed in the re-fined rough..
Then smile with your musings, let the doubt-lings gab if they must.

Against  the shimm'ring shivers of the white-gold mists, the grey-blue veil fills out against the frightened forest, anxious of the morn to come.
Not count yourself among those who shrink but those who harmonize with the chorus of the skies.
So be you not fearful of the morn to come, the raw potential of it all,
Rush into the recesses of the mind to find yourself rinsed in silver & gold.