The ward clock
drips
the final
drops,
the window sees
the last light
dim and die,
but
on the
shortest,
darkest,
day of the year,
beneath
the frost,
below
the rime,
the land
holds sleeping secrets
of renewal and rebirth.
editors note:
Winter iced and isolated; incubator, rejuvenator. Death is a sleep-through to Spring. – mh