A single note rises, the prelude to a primeval song carried

on the delicate wing of the wind, a fluttered whisper

of frigid breathe on cold skin, swirling through the chaos of lark trills

and snowfall, stilling for a moment until startled

by a distant thumping, an urging forward, a forewarning

like the pulsing of roots underground or the pounding

of vesnas pacing their palace floors.

*

Will there be another cake with frosting smooth and slick like a boreal bog

dusted with snowflakes and softened by the strengthening sun?

Will it ooze down the throat or lodge itself there, stealing the last of ragged breaths?

*

This is the turning, a moment cruel and hopeful when small seeds grow to perish

at the icy hands of fate, when the half-grown are sacrificed at the altars of destiny and folly

and the fortunate, with nostrils flared, inhale the scent of fecund land, the air.