The welcome heat of winter’s morn descends
Upon the deep, dark cauldron of the night
Whose flames of cold, and lapping tongues of chill
Consume the green, and leave an ash of white —
Like an eerie child the night has spawned
While men with upturned collars rushed along.

Warmth, I laugh at mention of that name,
Though but a name that I may wish upon,
For I in dread for freezing of the night
Sought first refuge at coming of the dawn —
The herald for the warmth that shall arise,
Though cold remains, a vestige of the night.

Why then this plea, this bitter soft complaint,
Hoarse crackling noise from melting ice appears
And rises from the ground agains that name
To noise petition to my cold-ached ears.
Halt! Ought I wonder what I now must say
To warmth, that ruthless tyrant of decay.

 

Written during the first experience of snow after coming to the US from Singapore in 1981.