BARE

Frosted concretions glisten through

the softness of snowy swells;

ever and anon, a bitter whiff tinges

Earth's silvern wreaths,

discarnate, yet gravid,

as the disenchantment of blossoms 

that perish by the Sun 

untouched;

not an inviolate, perennial malaise,

but a deep melancholy

afflicts our Mother,

inveigled into Her gaze and aspect

by Winter's breath.

It is not sorrow that rests heavy upon

my brow, nor the weight

of dotage that cumbers my limbs,

bows my spine.

Nay, it is Time's slow tread through 

this air heavy with decay,

these astringent fumes that freeze

the white soliloquy of stillness

in my throat.

Rime-rimmed leaves swirl around my

wistful feet, their dry, brown rasps 

echoing the Season's rhyme,

their spiral dance tracing the path

of the sacred cycle.

I ponder Earth's frigid, fleecy palls,

severe, unembellished,

shrouding her barrenness, as soon the

ground would my own.

Nay, Winter does not dissemble, 

nor does she sweeten her tenor with

divers hues and vignettes;

age and wisdom bid me seek her

desolate beauty, her eloquent quietude,

for therein to find my peace.

My eyes alone shall speak in her

formidable presence, flashing the light 

of storms to come, a light that sweeps

away the darkness before me.

© 2016 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: THE OLD WOMAN IN WINTER

Source: commons.wikimedia.org

Artist: Fernand Khnopff