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

No comments:

Post a Comment