A strange season is upon us Observed, felt, but comes too soon to carry a name. With winds of March and grass of May This winter, with wide eyes of fear darts around the peripheries Too afraid to take its rightful place.
Lining up in the skies Battalion clouds smash into one another Before they merge into One flat plateau cluttered with stars Whose points have been chipped away By a war of the planets.
And still. So still. Too still To be the spawn of winds and rains It lingers in the soul of seasons To be pulled out Like the thread of a puzzling dream We need to know.
