“Desolation!” the wind cries, its lament
An abandonment of dead leaves, fish bones,
Their twisted forms scratch my boots
Before the storm.
For the sake of sanity, roots sleep
Forgetting winter’s fallout
And men are not made to wear wild fur
Nor feel the edge of the white fang.
There is another time
In a dream of indolence
Where summer sands and sighing palms
Surf the somnolent sun.
It is far from here,
Not this land where none is young.