Expectation

Expectation

Mist settles like spectres
in the sepulcral hills.
Where the ghosts of spiralling seasons
linger in the fallen leaves
and pine cone-carpeted earth,
it nestles silent as solitude.
Winter wrapped in ghost-bandaged air
where scent of summer lingers still
on the damp moss
and deep, deep down
spring sleeps.
There is life here.
Cradled in the frost hard kernel
of winter's womb
the seeds of summer
grow in the grave of the year.