February

Wintertide, oh wintertide,

your hair is long

and fingers cold

and slippers creaky.

With a funny frozen smile
in a silence cold as ice

the treetops petrified

perilously whisper.

And tree roots

deep in themselves

are having dream of a dream

that spring shall be no more.

A gardener will sing,

her silver voice is echoing,

mingelling and jingelling

in stillness of the garden.

Frightened by deadly chill

in a hollow birdies sleep

daring not to breathe

in vagrant unison.

In their purity of hearts

there lies a little magic box

full of treasures

like the abundance of the ocean.

On the vastitude of sea

an aeonioan sailing ship

sailing with the paper sails,

all words along it taketh.

And in the deepest of the sea,

a thousand fathoms down beneath,

under golden sand and earth,

there lies a shell of pearls.

Inside that pearly shell of pearls

lies a pearl most radiant

and a fountain and the birds

never cease there singing.

And in the pearliest of pearls

a silver fairy has a dream

of February

in her crystal palace.

9.02.2010