round temple swells and
gospel tells in red-eyed dreary
pine, the yellow

sands aboard the land’s
cleavage of the fir and stirs
by salty rain; the day

is shedding on its way
far more bright than hue the
season to its sleep.

ah! listen now and small
all happy winds arise
on backs not knowing

otherwise; and curse the
darkness cold that sores
in torrents down the wintry

snores; the wretched
face of winter telling
so: within the calm

the death, the death
to life it goes.