Long before the winter's snow, dandelions blossom into white.

On the wind their seeds blow, without wings they take flight.

This midwinter flowers true, with petals red as blood.

Wordless metal sings blue, and diamonds of frost wed mud.

I carve bone until spring, and wonder without knowing.

What blooms rain may bring, none know while it is snowing.

But tonight I see clearer, past the cracks in dark glass.

A tree behind the mirror, and windblown weeds in the grass.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 12th of Severin, in the year 19 AC.