STARK

The Manor House --
so grand, yet unprepared for cold,
that even Tegsh nestles near the ebbing fire;
with snuggled petpeople near to hearth and soul.

The upstairs is austere,
with draped and close covered windows
such that only diffused hint of faerie moon
and golden streetlamps prove of life beyond.

One tiny window alone
in the cloistered garret bath
allows a view of treetop winter clarity --
a leafless glimpse of memories entwined.

There is no saving depth
nor relative perception against steel sky,
to give meaning to myriad layers of net --
cages of spirit webs of simple graying branches.

I hear a faint swishing --
a breeze caressed frond against the pane
which I can view with stretch of balance
and cheek pressed against fogged portaled glass.

Holly green and berries red --
a single tree is born again this day
in proud defiance of season's claim
to remind that all is well at Sakin'el.