Posting this one to earthweal.
Cold comes in the answer
and snow in the wind,
furrows fill with white, while
growling incandescence consumes
branch and twig
in our invocation of the sun we have lost
in the dark night of winter.
In the morning,
the embers cold and pitted with deer tracks,
ash streams, the wind still bitter.
Ice cracks in the north
with a dark voice full of teeth,
and in the wood
a thrush is singing.