Wintersong

The dancer lies in bed, shrouded in sheets
cold as the bone-white blanket outside,
his feet swell; bunioned, blistered,
burning in their gauze like mummies' paws,
worn out preparing the Prince for his pageant.
Across the roiling sea of trees, the castle tower beams luminescent,
fluttering ensigns dance above the ballroom. Ivan
toasts to his thirteen maidens. For the premier danseur, there is only
snow to ice the pain away, and snow to blind the marrow,
the phoenix and its flames have left this land to Lady Winter.

The white queen should at times, we hope, show mercy to a few.
When the evening glistens with glacial hues,
and the mountains tune to a lunar temperament,
the musician bathes in a snow white glimmer,
as he paints night's purple negligee with opalescent tones.
The frigid land is lulled, and the mere suggestion of dawn's flame
hastens her breath. Night sings a shivering trill,
and coos chill death through the window.
In his flat, the embers fade, and in a fever he plays on,
warming his hands on the rippling ivory.