What times

Of quiet moments when it is only I,

and the vacuum of his eye

 Icy trails dance down his frosted face-

dripping sorrow aged with Fall's disgrace;

 streams that bend today

And tomorrow fall away.

In seconds we were all alone

the face of winter burnt our tongue, as one,

With the chilling art of dark despair

 he told us, “I can't help that I am cold”-Aware

  he couldn't stop the chilling of our bones

 anymore than I, alone.

So, we watch the slowing arch

 and only can we wait our turn

for her veins to flow and the heart to burn

My tears to melt like dripping icicles in March.

And Daddy carries me high

above the burning bush

then through raging river's rush.

  Over Winters frozen lust

 dainty feathers thrust

Their wings against the turning of the wheel.