Since Boreas has at last graced us with his icy breath, sadly putting our Thai Mouse Shit chili plant on its last legs, I thought I'd follow up last month's winter poetry and art. I was reminded of the following by Steve; I hadn't thought of it in quite some time:
October is marigold, and yet A glass half full of wine left out
To the dark heaven all night, by dawn Has dreamed a premonition
Of ice across its eye as if The ice-age had begun to heave.
The lawn overtrodden and strewn From the night before, and the whistling green
Shrubbery are doomed. Ice Has got its spearhead into place.
First a skin, delicately here Restraining a ripple from the air;
Soon plate and rivet on pond and brook; Then tons of chain and massive lock
To hold rivers. Then, sound by sight Will Mammoth and Saber-tooth celebrate
Reunion while a fist of cold Squeezes the fire at the core of the world,
Squeezes the fire at the core of the heart, And now it is about to start.