It's all cold again down a blown northwest line,
and dark comes feeling again so darkly new.
New ice in the window is white spidery fine,
a low yellow sun again raises a false pale blue.
Need to shiver, need to deeply red combine
hot blood that in last hot summer green grew
in a thrusting fuse that could in blossom define
a warmth so petaled that a crow cawed true
into the frost that thin fingers etched sublime
with a silvery ghost script writ in frozen ecru
by gnarled knuckles forgotten in graying time
when the scythe scratches an icy bill come due.
But a baby crawls pink from under the blanket now
holding sprigs of chartreuse from a golden bough.