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While, Fated Winter, waits
underneath
our tectonic plates.
The Hearts of Men
freeze over.

A Sun’s distaste
stuns through rays of teeth
a souped-sonic phrase;

“Thirsts and gusts impart a wend
toward fields rebirthed a-growing
by another giver: a mothering river
with lored creeks and surf now flowing
but first you must adopt to tend
a broader seed worth sowing…”

And, as ought to a Son let go and set below
man’s orange-red environ
“…then, a Daughter, with claret aglow,
will rosily reckon, a wet plateau.
Aft, Doomsday’s — bled horizon.”

© poormansdreams

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