Dark spires decend in shadows steeped,
Drawing near to kiss the head and turn,
With haste up to their lofty peaks,
To watch the deathly winter yearn,
To thrash beyond the sky as if to meet,
Imposing arches with primordial throes,
The ancient stones belie this forceful feat,
Old cracks amidst the sprouting new.

Gift of words,
To make thoughts heavier,
To give them legs and stride,
To place them in the public square,
To pour them in a mold to set,
To grasp them when they are forgotten,
And dress them in a crafted coat.