In these days of cold and bright
when flesh and bone are bundled tight,
the weary sun casts not its rays
to warm the wayward wight.
It darts in shadows dark,
seeking not the frozen spark
or fire to light its way,
hiding from the burning mark.
Yet we are the icey ones,
we winter’s wandering pedestrians,
stumbling forth into the day,
hands held forth to a dying sun.
Will we become children of the snow,
our brains thick with blizzard blow?
Or tend the hearth where our hearts hold sway,
melt winter’s cold with fiery glow?