In growing light
from misted wood,
come wings of night
in veiled hood.
She gathers fuel
and stokes her fire;
that winter jewel
staves green desire.
A while more
in darkness dwell,
folk bar their door
on snowy fell.
And when her hearth
has turned to ash
and Spring imparts
its floral sash,
The Herder fades
as sings the Lark
until that day
returns the dark.
February 2020
WandeRoseD 