S t o r m a t W i n t e r ' s E n d i n g
We thought it past. The worst of it
At any rate. Thought it safe to assume
Relaxed positions, mocked safety measures.
Cited the sky’s brightness as proof of our claim.
But that was just ploy. Ours and the storm’s.
For it was but hiatus. Strength gathering
For the thunder to come – and it did.
What then? To what avail our strategies?
What could we firmly erect against it?
Language being the life I have chosen
We talked the night through till the storm
Outdid its own and our alarm.
How nature vivifies the times and crisis
Of the race. At almost winter’s ending
Well could we ask: “By spring, what will remain?
What of the once approaching comet’s kiss?”
Daily the Sun-king dies. In stone and tree,
As in all life, each is urged to see renewal
Impelled by cycles of the dying year
Of which the spring is celebrant.
“Be! and it is” the Primal Words declares,
Celebrates the death-in-life of human state.
My death confirms compulsion to comply,
Renews the storm-kissed, once reluctant I