The birds are singing. Winter's here,
The age of sleep, the age of death,
But sleep denies me, and awake
I brace the spectre of my breath
Before it melts into obscurity.
Though the waking hands of ice
Freeze my eyelids, I, unblinking,
See the grass, beneath the snowflakes, sinking
As I gaze unwavering to the south
Wishing she was here to catch them in her mouth.
The birds are singing. This is thought
And this is reason from the trees
For they are dead, and tempt me not:
What was once a thing forbidden
In the soil implants its seeds
And cannot grow for being hidden.
The flowers hoist their necks above the surface
To unimaginable heights, and loom
Over all sense of past and purpose,
But frost is dry, and cannot bloom.
Once I held the height of glory
Ascending story upon story
To the rain that filled the brook;
The sky was overcast with grey,
When I turned my eyes to look.
Her golden rays had gone away
And there was only snow instead of rain.
For thirst, my eyes have often sought her,
Wishing snow could turn to water,
Wishing white could fill with colour,
That my breathing clouds of steam
Had the warmth to thaw the frozen stream.
Arizona! You could never love her.
Her warmth is wasted in a foreign land:
She suns its crags, and boils the sand
While, in the clutches of a chilling flurry
Brought upon by winter's hand,
I whisper to the shadows, hurry,
Hurry back to me from Arizona.
Thus the lilies in the stream
Have since been overlaid by rust,
My watercolour garden seems
As if it were reduced to dust---
There are but shapes and corners here
Shaded by uninspiring hues
That my weary eyes peruse.
Shackled so in winter's fetters,
I can only turn to reason
With the birds, who sing me letters
From another season.
Then the frost begins to glisten,
And to every note I listen,
That I sleep, and dream of Arizona.
[This message has been edited by Local Parasite (10-04-2004 08:37 PM).]