what times

Of quiet moments when it is only I,
and the vacuum of his eye
 Icy trails dance down his frosted face-
dripping sorrow aged with Fall's disgrace;

 streams that bend today

And tomorrow fall away.


In seconds we were all alone
the face of winter burnt our tongue, as one,
With the chilling art of dark despair
 he told us, “I can't help that I am cold”-Aware

  he couldn't stop the chilling of our bones
 anymore than I, alone.

So, we watch the slowing arch

 and only can we wait our turn
for her veins to flow and the heart to burn
My tears to melt like dripping icicles in March.



And Daddy carries me high
above the burning bush
then through raging river's rush.

  Over Winters frozen lust

 dainty feathers thrust



Their wings against the turning of the wheel.