~ Brittle me, I wait … ~

~ Brittle me, I wait … ~

Wintry northern wind doth blow,

Blowing, so straight from heaven,

Pinching, pricking, piercing, of me,

Pieces of warmth, beholden, leaven …

Oh, tell … would thou come too?

With the icy breaths of November,

Rubbing cheeks against the wall,

Of the noon of my sultry slumber …

Like a shriveled veined last leaf,

I’d look out for thy silent arrival,

Lynched on lone branch, so corny,

Where a prosaic gust doth gravel …

Tread softly, on my brittle terrain,

For I’d seek, a secret soft wedlock,

In the heaths, away from a coven,

Wearing solitude, a whitish smock …

Come as thee wish to … gently to me,

Doth hurry, up the hill, would ye scurry?

Wait await in my plain mournful eyes,

 Dry northern wind shalt pluck to bury!