Now is the chilled and stark mien of winter’s death, running its fingers through its frozen hair Dark, withdrawn and without joy. Earth is no closer to death than this, as the planet blindly feels for light. Ancient man watched the horizon, seeking one stray thread of sun, something to reassure his terror. Dispirited cattle crunch through ice, their hooves immersed in half-frozen water, mud, sludge. Lowing for their warm barn they protest their exposure to the field. Between the dawn and darkening there are so few hours of living. Beds are singing, covers hum of warmth and desperate escape. Will no crocus peek its head out of the soaked and sodden earth so drear. Will the ice never break and let spring flow out into the land in salvation. Then in summer’s rude glaze of heat, the heart cannot help but remember that abysmal time with fondness, as if when next it came it would be embraced.