Weak Winter by JOY MANNING

Let wind come

to stir this winter

void of glint

or glow.

Let wind come

to fields’ naked sprawl,

hollow in hunger

wilted and bronzed,

To dish-water skies

that spread endless

overhead,

to air steeped with wet,

pelting drops broad

and viscous,

not chilled enough

for crystals,

yet biting bones.

Let wind come

pressing cold

to emboss raindrops

into frost lace,

filagreed as royal robes,

to pirouette a spiral

path descending

over field decay.

Let cold breath blow

crisp bright into air,

white and clean,

ice-sparkled with snow,

dressing weary fields

in silver-sheen cloak.

Let winter’s breath blow

to dazzle sleepy hills

and sate

this yearning

landscape.