Wind bites down and clamps its maw,

And in its wake the meadow calms.

Black as souls that no love has known,

The sky shows fawns that are not there,

And I hear songs from winter birds.

Cold iron lays limp in my lantern,

And freezes the world where it lays.

One day—and it will have been soon—

The sun will come, and I will mourn

At greater intervals, and pray to Him

In days between.