Winter Grief
A grief ago, the heart chilled, then stood still,
A prayer unspoken, yet it lingers still.
A process in the weather of the soul,
Where light reflects frozen and takes its toll.
A refusal to mourn, though flames devour,
A child laid in bed in their final hour.
Yet, death shall have no dominion, they say,
As the saint about to fall kneels to pray.
A winter’s tale in a dammed frost-bound stream,
After the funeral, footsteps fall and seem
to call out to mourners, and call once more,
the fellows who dug the grave we adore.
Altarwise by dim-light, the world does spin,
Among those killed, a man aged bent and thin.
Ballads of the long-legged wait and rise,
to sing the elegies that pierce the skies.
Before I knocked on the door of despair,
I dreamt of genesis, beginnings rare.
Being but women, we foster the light,
Winter-long winds howl loud through the night.
Do not go gentle into that cold night,
Rage, rage, rage! for the dying of the light.
when into the whitest snow, life is thrown,
in cold grief, in winter, we grieve alone.
In the craft of sullen, intricate art,
I see the children of winter depart.
How soon the quarrelsome servant sun fades,
As holy-spring breaks the icy cascades.
WoPoLi 
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