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 the tempest as she strokes them in madness. © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)