Poem: Winter’s Death

The winter’s rushing wind is swirling all around,
a vortex scattering its icy flakes upon the ground,
and all the earth is frozen by this deadly seed.
They cannot stand, neither beloved root nor hated weed.
The garden perishes under the blackened skies.
When years complete themselves, so too will be my joys and sighs.

Then, Death will come and sow her seed within my flesh—
Anon, perhaps some living spring will come to me afresh—
but winter’s rushing wind is swirling all around,
saying someday that I’ll be dead and lowered in the ground . . .

. . . that I will be interred . . . lost in chthonic black . . .
There’s hidden growth among the dead. Lost seed, I know, comes back.