the grip of temperature:

beneath the field of winter's edge
the sun climbs up the mountain's ledge,
pouring through in shades of red;
breathing life to what was dead,
we hear the song lovers sing;
of newborn lust beginning to cry,
echoing the young lady's sigh
and in the cradle life will lie,
welcoming the spring.

of all the conversations sprung
a reminder comes of what's been done,
the sharpening of the blinding sun;
left drops of amber on our tongues,
young lovers turn the locks and sing;
i remain frozen in free form,
washing the past of what's been worn
await to be melted await to be torn,
welcoming the spring.