Night Frost
In the noble metal of moonbeams,
Under a sprawling cloth of sky, my hair,
Stirred by winter's cold breath, moves frostily
Across my brow, under the lumbering Bear.
It is too cold here on year's-end earth
For honey from the Bear's sweet face to drip
From heaven onto where I stand alone,
Waiting for amber drops to kiss my lips.
The moon, ice white, traverses east to west,
And, as the air grows cooler, the fine dew
Congeals on scalloped leaves and yellow blades
Of winter grass beneath a shroud of blue.
I too am gathering the fine hoarfrost, tears
Of Hecate, frozen on my bare head
And hands, crusted on my parka's shell,
Pale as the boney skulls of fleshless dead.
As burning wind bites at my naked ears,
She puts an iron clad seal on graves and tombs,
Yet underground, in dens and lightless burrows,
She opens up the gates of shuttered wombs.
I wonder whether, in the quiet dark,
In the frozen season's mystery,
She and the honey bear will pay me note,
And fill my mouth with frost of poetry.
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