Futility

Winter: low,
cold,
in arms,
breathless,
yet possible.

Winter lies low:
close, cold
within the arms
of breathlessness
and possibility.

Winter night lies low,
closed and cold,
holding, within desperate arms
of drawn silence, any breath
that could be misconstrued as song.

Winter night lies low, hushed,
closed off in bitter cold,
holding possibility at bay,
for as long as any breath can be held
away from inevitable amplification
into the possibility of Spring sun and of song.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen