Blow me a blow of wind high in the tops.
Leafless, still leafless, lifeless winter drops
whiter than bone and through hard bitten ground
delicate bells push up and make no sound.
Screech me a screech would make a spirit quake.
Moan all around, leave terror in your wake.
Frighten mere children while it’s in your power.
This is your final battle, your last hour.
Yes, you have fight but you can’t win the day.
Change as change happens. Spring is on her way.
Look, I have taken off my winter vest.
See how gently light rain comes to rest
there on your grave, old withered winter wind.
Sleep there a while until the season’s turned.
Go now, let bird song tune you from my mind.
Oonah V Joslin
ART: Withered Wind, The Linnet's Wings House Art