Feathers in the freezing
with a modicum of warmth,
shivering for summer
with its plethora of worth.
The birds that never left, that stayed in their sweet nests
in trees barren and naked now, frozen to their feet
and more, swaying to the colder wars,
with wind to whip like cavalry, and meanly,
and the trees and birds gone to grieving
but the cemetery is sleeping
under glaciers for these months,
all the tombstones lost and sunk
nevermind the absent sun.
But it comes back, eventually, tucked away in January
that missing sun survives the ice, to which it melts into new life
and the birds can safely sing no strife,
when the sun again settles in our sight.