A host bursts over the vines
towards the cypresses:
joy, as it catches December sun,
tugs in the wind
at the heart’s dark corners.
The deep January snows
will slowly, slowly ride up the hill,
and then, soldiers deserting
the finches will go home,
done at last with the world of cold,
they’ll come back down to earth
to live again among men,
bearing their badge of war –
a flash of red, a streak of gold.