Somewhere in our clay remembers the speed of cold,
Overtaking the surge of colors with grey breath,
And the shudder of fields, as they smother beneath
The white infinity of ice paralyzing the world.
How swiftly fear touches this relic—cold in the bone.
After his second going, they hide from the crowd.
Then, like manna from a red wind, a tongue of flame swirls
Into each mind huddled there in the fear-filled room.
The language caul they lived in falls, leaves them wordless,
Then, a kindling, words they never knew they had come
Alive out of nowhere sprung with awakening
That will not cease until winter sets the heart free.
Out in the open now, voices of new belonging,
Needing no courage beyond the fire of their longing.