Imagine time the place where shadows grow
Divine, and spread like fans that winnow noon
From dawn and dusk from rotting bones in snow
That marks the melting margins of the sun.
Then conjure thoughts of breadth: from apse
And nave to chthonic crypt, from heaven’s womb
To Hades’ tomb. What fires your cold synapse?
What Aprils march to February’s doom?
Where ice has borrowed, spring is lent away:
A princess comes to live in exile’s realms,
Her pert magnificence at close of day –
Though holding fast – reveals and overwhelms.
The nothing left is less than chaff – a creed
Of stones. What’s gone is everything that lasts:
The bittersweet and many-seeded need
To see beyond the light that darkness casts.