In my window I frame a winter scene
Of tonsured fields, shorn of their crops,
Rolling down to the white-haired mountain range.
Moribund, the branches of an ancient oak
Are a filigree to filter the watery sun
Flitting in and out of its cloud shroud.
Only a keen-eyed kestrel swoops
To wrench one last living thing
From the icy death clench of the frost-hard land.
Life's hoard of hope lies frozen
Along the seams of the silver stream.
But unbeknown, the weak rays of the noon-moon
Are stirring a blood that is forever green,
Beneath the blackened veins of these remains.