FROSTBITTEN

Bitten
By the sodden taste of Winter.

It’s the dawn
Of another false Spring.

Twilight
In an empty room.

Snowdrops
Not yet bloomed.

And Bluebirds dance
Above Winters’ tomb.

Somewhere
A smokey harvest moon,
Hangs in the Eastern sky.

Heralds
A sycamore cyclone.

Quieter than silence.