I wake from dreams of trains and tunnels.
Outside, the wind is restless,
prowling,
prying.
Branches scrape against the wall
like lost souls crying.
Falling moon,
snared among the net of pines,
casts desperate shadows.


Scraps of midnight,
set loose,
driven,
drift and gather
filling gaps,
bridging cracks.

From their northern mountain strongholds
range forth the winter armies,
night and wind and shadow,
to flood the plains below.
Yet, somewhere in the fractured moonlight,
an almond blooms.
Bare and fragile petals,
a beacon,
a prayer:
That night will end with dawn,
that seasons change
that even a winter of ten thousand years
must thaw.