bent are the boughs of sacred summer
beneath my cherished children’s weight
full of the vigor of a season’s sanctuary
life living itself out in authentic action
overflowing with wandering wind’s warmth

who can stand cold in the midst of it all?

maybe the man waiting on wild winter
with the chill of fall frosting his hoary heart
while the corpse-eating crows caw ravenous
over a hope-filled heavy head
bowed and praying for the union of spring