black infinity of starlight and the waxing moon

the polar tides churn beneath the ice
it is the winter solstice
and we must look inward
outside is cool desolation
the ponderous margin
the frigid and frozen,
the living and the dead
ice fog burns off like
the waking dream
coming down from
the mountains peak
the pinacle, spire or summit
glazed with a wind swept cornice
how is it that the air has teeth
the moon will converse wiseley
with the wandering man across blue snow
he rests beside the patch of overflow
trying to keep his boots dry
and the imagination offers
only dreams of the hunt,
conquest and harvest
this is not a heavy winter slumber
what does not exist, peace
nor a lucid dream
on the landscape
is left to the imagination
what is to become of man
lies dormant
like treasure beneath snow
gold in the heart
and a diamond mind