Thaw... Rest Would Awake

Let sylvan limbs roll up their snowy sleeves:

Over all imp-pediments of Winter;

Glad unclad but for bark to which trunk cleaves;

Lichen not the frostbite on each splinter.

Imploring still the nascent airs of Spring:

Kaleidoscope of colour Autumn lost;

Enflamed near end to leafy hands upfling,


Suffering, I see winds that each branch tossed.

Listen. Still the rustling movements haunt,

Ethereal as birdsong to a bough

Emptied of all art but the chill taunt,

Polemic as fraught nightmare over now.


Until lumber timber shan't just slumber:

Pretty blossom's wake wilt re-encumber!