Winter is somber beneath grey skies,
Autumn mouldering in scattered leafpiles,
Summer's ember a mere memory,
Spring a songbird long flown south.
Sheol opens his mouth and closes his eyes,
So the dead earth comes as no surprise
Here in December's darkling days,
When life's dim flame is guttering out.
The year's last sharp moonsliver
Is smothered by cloudwisps
Here in the last, darkest hour
Before the final dawn.
Wind whips anything it can,
Driving the enduring chill
Down through skin, down through bone,
Down, down, down to the depths.
It is hard to remember the songbird's breath
Here in a land of cold, dark death,
But her return does not depend
Upon our belief or remembrances.
Make no mistake: She will return.
As surely as the dancing spheres
Bring dawn and winter's end,
We will hear birdsong again.
