She paints across the evening sky,
with stretched wings freely mocking colder climbs
as the somber'd earth below echoes the graying hope of Spring.
Alone in the mist,
she flies in search of the promised feast,
availing hunger.
Nothing.
No scratch of life to be found as distant stars brighten her hasty search; azure'd bleak dusking the cause.
And down, spiraling down she goes,
falling into the numbed life.
There she rests under the pillowed banks of snow,
buried with her unrequited dreams,
a promised peace to come,
melting beneath the mid-winter stars.
