Fur

This grey rain, which swirls and wails, beyond these walls, bemoaning the long darkness

Until its rebirth, short months away,

Is harbinger.

And what of? I will scoff at this darkness, only eye glow held against misery;

I shall be your spring, first, lit as I am, amidst the folds and comforts here,

And, drawn such, languid and longing,

Suggest honey upon honeyed, warmed and liquid, glass reflected as it is

in this resting time of winter's ice vista.

You shall be - and me,

Mellowing with the we, until (such-like and sometimes),

It is suddenly us,

Bloomed.

D. Nevills Nov. 15, 2008