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!
