It is a must this winter
otherwise how will the cold happen
or the frost lining thin icy fields
drawing wedge of summer and winter
creating cleavage of warmth?
How will the surprise happen
of rooster calling in blackened
morning, when the sun does not
whisper? This winter preys on deathless
shadows, and the hour glass measures
time in vapid movements of colourless skies.
Winter happens in myths of time
And denuded forests, when hills
shiver in quaking cold.
When streams gurgle fearlessly.
Winter is primordial. Ancients know
How it eclipses summer’s moon
And drinks a mouthful of wine till eternity.
It’s insignia is a thumb sketched
ray of shadows in hope.
