Mother Winter

Mother Winter spends much of her tenure
so dispassionately in a trance she’s been
mistakenly accused of coldness. But witness

now the boldness with which she interns your
dreams, keeps them like bald bare babies
in a freeze so absolute, so close to her,

they germinate into a mysticism: rapt, asleep,
as deep as they can go, they last interminably
in the heart, become the vast collective embryo

of every art you’ll ever know. All is diamond
sharp to Mother Winter: see her sun! Love,
beware, be careful of her eyes! They stun.





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