In verdant boughs where summer’s warmth did cling,
A sudden step into the frigid storehouse of winter brings.
Damp stacks of hay at morn with hoarfrost crowned,
Embers wane, leaving the hearth’s blackened ground.
The watchman, head on knees, in corner curled,
His breath, through fingers frostbitten, slowly purls.
Beasts low in nearby pens, where lantern light doth stay,
—Dead twigs by wintry gusts to sparks betray.
The cold wind whips through horses in the mist,
New ice upon the lake as if in birth it twists.
The sands conceal the river’s edge, it seems,
And shores embrace the waters in their dreams.
Through winters long, by fancy’s force I’ll bind,
How blossoms seize the tempest’s fiercest grind.
2020
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