A Winter's Song

by JAMES L. ROSENBERG
IT IS the fall of the frost in the dying season
Chimes from the frozen leaves, from the clanging stones;
Its drily metrical logic, its icy reason,
Rimes in my bower of bones.
All is held in the grip of a gray enchantment
Soundless and chill as a dream of stainless steel;
The foot strikes sparks of frost from the glazed embankment,
But it does not feel.
The wrenched world lies in the winter’s harsh embrace,
Numb and sprung and drained of foliage and hue,
Yet blankly acknowledging somehow this process of ice Wrings true.
I, too, like the paralyzed seeds, like the hypnotized trees,
Am frozen toward blossom in cycles of cold. This one1
Suggests I will flower again in another spring
And another sun.