o frost,

you call, imbue

my skin with deadness that i may not

touch the grassy softness of spring,

my mind with veils of ice that i may not

know the birth of joy-giving birth that i may

settle into familiar dark alone-making rest

for long asleeping keeping

still, and in stillness

stay, and in staying 

seek the signs, without seeing

until i can regenerate in reverse

and arise dream-divested,

hollowed, hallowed, starving for the onslaught of life