There is a voice that speaks to me
From deep within this winter dream
Of ice and wind upon the plain and
Nights as cold and dark as death. 

It whispers soft within my ear
And tells me what I do not want
To hear upon the edge of this,
The winter of my middle years. 

I am no fool to think that I
Might die before the spring’s first melt
But I have seen the scars that ice
Can leave upon a stone.

There is a song that haunts my heart
From long abandoned summer sleep
Of sun and wind upon the sand and
Days as warm and bright as life.

It sings into this lover’s heart
Of careless time and faultless kisses
Stolen, lost and freely tossed
On passion’s restless sea.

The voices of my youthful folly
Haunt my morning’s waking dream.
Leave me languid, lost to love
Becalmed, bemused, bereft but free
Of storm-tossed anger, rage and struggle,
Temper tempered, shackle free,
Completely frozen, in the moment,
Calm as death, as near can be.

And so I stand, a mortal man,
A pilgrim humble on my knees
Upon the hem of autumn’s skirt
And coax her now to lift the veil.

Her misty eyes do not reveal
An answer in the dewy morn
But high and thin, the voice within
Continues to believe. 

She cannot guide my heart to know
The path to take me from this place,
Nor can this voice that speaks to me
From deep within this winter dream.

There is a fire that burns the loins
And sucks the breath from deep within
And heaves and claws against the ice
That seeks to rime this winter dream.