and in related news...
The bitter dust of winter
Delivers her speech
Leaving a feeble shell
Over a once vaulted honor.
She prattles from the arctic basin
As my hands move over my disbelief;
How can this pale ghost,
With her invalid procession,
Consume expectation like a feral beast?
O! We’ll greet her breathless yelping
With sideways glances kept for fools
And open the gates to her weather;
Her misbegotten storm winking
Deep within our better selves.
She drinks our tidal melancholy
left beneath our plodding steps;
Sadness felled of our waiting, drifts
To a pitiable weight.
The bitter dust of winter
Will pitch us into uncertain folly,
Statesmen will lather
...