The cold leans in and tries to whisper, the night with guarded skin a sacred fence.
The owl will not listen for the kettle still is burning, and the children sleep at last.
What more than the flame could the spirits await? What more than heat to give?
There is nothing but truth and wide open arms, waiting for some legend to make or
Break the call. The wolves have nothing but that call, so shrill and desperate and
Lonely all at once. What more have we to give? What more than a voice in the
Bleak, hollow night to love and pierce with nothing but integrity? There is no color,
Not on the leaves, not on broken lips. There is only a low, unwavering tone among
The crooked twigs and endless paths. There is no clearing, no place of light, just the
Moon, that all knowing eye that will not cease to burn, and it waits just for the call.
In the night of stones and fatal breath, in the cold, bent, and brutal grave, it burns.
What more have we to give?

Written in 2002.