The trees outside my window creak and sigh
Beneath a frigid, black, and starry sky.
When Zephyrus Hurler-of-Rain, rapacious, proud,
Has softened to a gentle, vital breath,
The seeds, now frozen in their stony death,
Will thirst and thrive and drink of sun and cloud.
Feathered sojourners will flock from afar,
Whose flapping whirlings on the swirling wind,
Whose cryptic choreographies, impart
The hidden workings of an eldritch mind.
They'll seek their branches, their domestic spheres;
Perched high among the leafy boughs, they'll found
A thousand tiny kingdoms, free of fears,
Deep-rooted in the life-imparting ground.
From twigs like fingertips, the leaves will grow
Into an overgrowth of verdant green;
The whispering trees will shade the world below
A sighing, swaying, gloomy aquamarine.
Insects lie waiting in their embryonic form
In earthen rooms among the grassy blades,
And when the nights grow purple-sweet and warm,
They'll chant an ancient chant in twilit glades.
Although black ice is mingled with the dirt,
The world seems hushed, expectant, and alert.
Copyright by Ike Wassom 2014. All rights reserved.