"Here comes the frost,"
She sighs, drinking up time--
Infinite and fluid as tears--
Anxious, cold, and waiting
For a gust from the north
To dry her heart, carry it away in its piercing cloak.

Her dark hair, a draping silken cloak,
Cascades to her waist, and the frost
In her eyes flickers by the light of a north-
Bound moon (the messenger of Time)
As hours, brimming with waiting,
Pass slowly, soaked in tears.

She wipes the glaze of tears
From her cheek, gathering the sheets about her like a cloak
Around her silver shoulders, waiting
For the thunder of gallops to melt the frost-
Bitten silence reflected in the ticking of time--
Hollow, resonating somewhere between the North

Star and herself, a woman of the north,
A winter woman who admits no tears
(Though the old man of time
Has shown her suffering), but veils them under her Cloak--
An aegis against the frost
Of loss, loneliness, and waiting.

Then nighs the cessation of waiting,
And she, ushering him in from the penetrating north-
Borne winter and its biting frost,
Dries her tears
Against his heavy black cloak,
Scented with the absence of time.

He whispers gently, "The time
Has come.  Rest your waiting
Soul within my cloak,
And turn from the blinding north
Wind that stings the eyes, turning tears
To frost."

The north wind blows in from the open door; he wraps her in his cloak,
Without waiting, casting off the dark hours of tears and frost...
And Time vanishes with grace.