Her smile was the snow on the wintry green

Trodden to the ground, a mask upon the land

As fragile as the frost of a midmorning sheen

Forever aglow, but forever unseen.

Does she weep for the Spring, and the winterbourne streams?


A soft echo spent like the rustle of leaves

Tears at the sky as the morning assumes

A sigh, a shake, or a simple scream

Will wrest apart the unrest of this autumn daydream

Or like the rest scour, and tear at the seams.


But o, these lands! She holds the moon in her hands,

That I, once wreathed in holly, knew

Too cold and shrill for these icy lands

To spin them out of something new

Could thread the golden ribbons blue.


Thereat a cry revives the chill of a song

It is a place half discarded for a life long gone.