There is a northern glade, growing
where oceans turn to ice, where warmth
and heat evade, though some months
the sun longly spies upon its
birchen brooks, glinting in partial shade.
And wandering in the woods, is one
whose hands herald fierce frost, whose
essence has withstood obliteration –
found but lost, on Memory’s
cold way, by her whom she forsook.
Summer is come to stay, and in
its endless placid light, spirits
and children play. Is it true?: When
we cease to spite, endless dusk is
unmade, and returns the sun’s day.
Queendom of the Crocus 