the moon hung like ice in the sky

the shining, waxing sliver seeming

alternately to swallow or give birth

to its darkened fullness

hints of frost glinted in the grass

skeletons of trees shook

their bony winter arms

as the bitter, biting wind

wailed a dirge through their branches.

the world, dying, lay bare,

unshrouded, unshriven.

whence would come the light

to penetrate the night?

whence would come the balm

for the burial?

whence would come the life

that would put an end to strife?

who would come?

who would come

put our shadows all to flight?