A strange season is upon us
Observed, felt, but comes too soon
to carry a name.
With winds of March and grass of May
This winter, with wide eyes of fear
darts around the peripheries
Too afraid to take its rightful place.
Lining up in the skies
Battalion clouds smash into
Before they merge into
One flat plateau cluttered with stars
Whose points have been chipped away
By a war of the planets.
And still. So still. Too still
To be the spawn of winds and rains
It lingers in the soul of seasons
To be pulled out
Like the thread of a puzzling dream
We need to know.