Earthquakes shook the icy tops,
Of Mountains soaring high,
The Northern Realm lost its frost,
Winter thawed, by and by.
He rolled his boulder aside,
Breathed Her in, Spring’s perfume.
Stumbling down the Mountainside,
He looked back at His Tomb.
Mournful thought, crumbling apart,
Her call, borne by the Wind,
Whispered low of Golden Hearts,
“It is now, Heal and Mend.”
The Feasting Hall opened wide,
Young Warrior, marching tune,
Gathering Spear; matching stride,
Through sparse Sun at high-noon.
© All rights reserved, 2016.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.