'A Sad Tale's Best for Winter'

Just beyond the mirth of great Nature’s rebirth,

Bitter winter beckons to confine the shining sun

And stamp out all life young. It tears each leaf

From each limb, letting each fall into the grave

Of all that’s nothing, where the putrid stench

Of decay is as potent as the plague of darkness

That reigns over all like a tempest of tyranny.

But, in the midst of nothing, some life interred

Stirs to inch slowly upwards through benighted

Daylight, shooting through the earth’s melting

Mantle to bring spring forth and rot the root of

Flowering winter. So I do not sit above the grave

Of all, but the great womb of all, where all that’s

Nothing swells Nature like two mingled bloods

So that it may soar beyond our horizon of time

To create, from all that’s nothing, all that’s great.


Published in The Monktonian