Winter

If only there had been no visions;
if I had never seen
the world transformed into heaven
by the pursuit of our own holy passions--
perhaps I would not feel so deeply
the bitter bite of cold.
I would know no better place,
and so be content with some illusion.

The unsloughed rime of rage
has frozen my flight
across winter's domain.
Ice-shrouded fingers
supplicate snow and sky
to permit me passage
beyond the boundaries of the lie.
But though it beckons from so near,
I cannot hear
the promises of spring.

I am dying of the hunger
for what I hold
in my hands.

I am afraid that the momentum
of the cycle of seasons
was just not enough, this time,
to get me through,
and I will remain
forever frozen-

in winter.