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Now, to those dawns swept up from poles
In the long rush of February storm
–When flakes are swept through darkness to the north
And mountains of blue ice are metal to the sun–
Offer no light, no fire. Your nakedness,
The numbed and empty hand, is perfect offering,
The blood unthawed, the small bones of the frost.

Without this ritual, among the plains of ice,
The black snows of the later year are stayed–
Black snows that rage before the warmth returns,
Turning to rains, slow rains that end
As suns roll thunder through divisioned skies.
Exposure moves the blood again, the veins are warm,
Green world rehearse to winter eyes.

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