Words by Jane Jones

inter came in through my window
like a welcomed wren
on the corner of my bookshelf.
He pruned his little wings
and set my teeth to chattering.
With stony eyes he looked at me
and the song that he began to sing
firesides and stormy skies,
icy roads and bony trees,
rosy cheeks and chilling wind,
windows frozen and ice-trimmed.
I lit a taper, listening still
to his high and brittle trill
much like the weather-worn leaves
long collected below the windowsill.
And as he lulled me with his tune
my thoughts did dance about the room
and soon I came to realize
that winter had gone, and yet lingered on
and landed just so
sounded of
and from my mouth
his song rang out
and resounded
long into the
moonlit night.