Snowfall out of my headdress
The gleam in the cold is getting weaker
She calls me a dolt like a prizefighter
So tonight I might miss my target
A clipped moon while sun is shrouded in shadow
The winter’s countenance is a clipped pigeon
While the air thins from the tightened grasp of the wind
And the child in me strains for some movement
So I bow, back and forth
Worship to my own stature
The blood flow is precious as word
Scripted in the fog of the ancients
I feel lineage in your eyes
Let us soak up the last bit of heat
As we close the doors of another season
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