III

The brightest eye of brimstone bold
Is half-dipped in white of painter's
Mould, and shivers in fear duly
Far beneath the field's fiery cold.

From rocks is stolen heat alone;
Red beauty still when white is robes,
Yet, in the country spread so broad,
This second wind has cause to moan.

For when will winter's kiss recede?
When will beratement come to cease?
In empathy the land reacts
As if the grass can hear the seed.

For seed there is birthed from snowy
Ground to climb the phoenix landscape:
Awaiting the thaw, body curled -
From beyond is the ice glowing.

The surge will come in time routine,
A spark along the verge of rain;
Mysteries hold not against tides,
And hidden gems are gems foreseen.

When change is sprouting forth its leaves,
All chill will creep to particles;
Not that the winter's hand evolves
For better of these summer thieves;

Instead, the melancholia
Drifts down, forced eyes and icicles,
In pieces beauty resurrects.
This is weather's insomnia.

Until then seek and cherish snow,
Dappled under the sweating brow,
Each bead of grey will be transformed:
Watch then as this warm truth will grow.

The End

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