It can't be just the winter on the world; Not the sagging sky that relentlessly has whirled Snow to heaped drifts, nor the steely frost Numbing even the wind till its voice is lost; Not the dead mauve mountains nor spiked weeds, Nor harassed birds pecking at vine berry seeds. It can't be just winter. In winter there is sleep. There is none in this inner turmoil and wild pulse leap That makes a mercy of just growing old. Heat choked yet sensing distant cold; Beaten to bits and storm-filled without reasons, My restless heart is caught between two seasons. |