But Upon Waking...

Why kiss the whispers of frigid air that
hath unto her soft shoulder glean?
A shivering knowing doth keep bare
the harsh ice with glorious steam
At last, she doth not recall at once
when she dreamt of hidden gardens
In a day drenched with heat only runs
close to the lane where none doth harden
When the limbs stretch for new green
and stifle all whisps of fog that caress
a winter moon; a real spring sheen
shines as heat sprung a slick mess
At last, she doth recall the bare twigs
that stretch toward an abyssmal sky, bearing
scars of secrets of wars past and digs
deep into her mourning, shouting, staring