~ 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!