The Dreaming Season My body and thoughts pace the silence of predawn morning Breathe daggers of icy cold Alert, alive, sharpened sense tuned to winter stillness Here, the hum of streetlights, the whispering breeze through darkened alleyways, against closed shutters, clinging to my skin And lining every corner, the trees like silent spectres bear witness to Autumn’s wake All seem to plead with me, ‘return to your home, It is the dreaming season’ I am not ready for the reflection While I huddle lost inside, stare long hours into fire Watch frost paint winter’s passing on misty window panes I do not wish to feel the intruder in these early hours, Separate, alone, weighted by my humanity My footprints collect shadows, a furrow of imperfection, roughly etched in the pastel softness of perfect snow And it is here, one final time, that I must seek Where all the streets are hidden, all the paths are new, Where just beneath lies the troubled ghost of summers past And deeper still, the hope that I might cast on into spring It is the dreaming season, and I wander on For I still lack a peaceful dream