and thus the chill becomes the feather
dancing in the air, an almost stirless heavy
growing in my hair, a never-thought of weather
just beyond my stair

and thus the cruel of winter’s kiss
promised to my skin – an always stirring heady
wanting of a sin, a desperate thought of bliss
just beyond again

and thus the sweater becomes the holy rite
dusting off the cold, an almost sterling hurry
cradled warm delight, a forgotten thought of starry night
just to now behold

and thus the starling moot becomes the weather
fleeing on the breeze, an always stirring heaven
growing o’er my hair, a never-thought of feather
just beyond my stare.