The land and the lake have been wed,
Their warring is done til spring —
A blanket of snow for a bed,
And fetters of ice for the ring.
The bride in a blizzard of white,
The groom as a grey recluse,
Their progeny hidden from sight,
The spawn of a winter’s truce.
I sit by the window and wait
Amid villainous rumours of war;
The habit of men is to hate,
The nature of ice to thaw.
And the nature of hate is to grow,
And the nature of love to wane,
Though what should a poet know
That victory couldn’t explain?
And gravity tugs at the pods
Impatient to crater the dead,
And satelite eyes swarm thicker than flies,
And Pentagon lies call death from the skies.