Wind rustles at my wind-blown hair,
whistling through a widowed forest,
wearied icicles, declaring to tear
foliage into withering, modest
jokes on living proper while persistence
slowly recedes like fronts war-abraded.
Foreheads fling iceblocks to warm non-existence
but times, they are changing, serrated
knives succeeding the moralist throne;
new ice age looms ominously clear
as brain-freezing winds turning cold-
weary men to altruist beasts
lurch direly near.