A Prayer For Winter

From somewhere in the depths of night

I felt his breath draw near

Felt his wing’ed touch and sensed his winnowing spear

He came to love or renounce me

‘twas not for me to know

I turned my head and gazed instead at the swirling, hushing snow

Outside, the winter shushed and quieted

By the hearth, a burning log slipped fiery red

And then he knelt in quiet reverie, a gentle hand upon his fevered head

Whose hand was that? ‘Twas not mine

For mine lay cupped in perfect stillness, buried beneath covers deep

‘Twas the hand of reason, I prayed, or empathy perhaps, that stilled the head with thoughts that steep

His spear lay resting against the wall

Its’ tip softened mellow from use refrain’d

Its’ handle invited a lunge forthwith, a dance death to engage again

Still, he tarried and, still, I lay

His to pardon, his to obey

I dared not gaze upon him but held my breath instead

Held my breath and keenly listened

To all that was not said

In time, an endless length of time

He stood and finally whispered near

Old girl, ‘tis not for me to judge, m’ dear

‘Tis only for me to come ever close

So you might, like winter’s chilly breath

At last see crystal clear