Arm, winter. Warmth has made advances
close to your domain. Those are martial dances.
Arm, mighty ice.
The sun isn’t nice.
Wake up, winter. You cannot lie fallow anymore.
Sprouts are bursting. That’s not a senior tour.
I know, winter. Cold death is not easy.
The earth is moist. Birth is busy.
Children in the park will disturb the squirrels and birds.
Impenetrable nature is running out of words.
Soon the gallant will be whispering to the maid,
“Death is gone. There’s room for us in the shade!”
Arm, winter. The human race is shouting, “yes.”
The priest who hates the teacher
and the teacher who hates the priest
both warned us about this mess.