Before the last gasp of muddy cold 

spreads foggy against the winter's sky 

and the frost comes to harden the ground 

and whiten the twitching, rat-colored grass - 

before the snow pellets fall on all things dun 

and mutely, calmly, bring winter on - 

Not first the moon, turning her sideways smile, 

shrugs herself into her cloak of night; 

while all the world's stars wink on and out 

and march into the advancing light - 

 The winter's fire burns out on the hearth, 

juniper smoke curls away into vines; 

ashes settle in the pit to earth. 

In ashes of grey I call forth a form: 

lines marching in columns traced by youth, 

an aging god of an aging race; 

and exhumed, my hands grey with the ashes 

of gods and myth, time and space 

laid out in the sarcophagi of library casings - 

time gathers in and grows old. 

Winter congeals on my hands, in ash, to dust; 

I toss wood on the embers, against the cold.