Poemander

Ice shall move, but so brittle

Soils for sowing in the field.

Flooded gates, yet seedlings whittle:

Acres toiled for no yield.

Winds shall change, but the people:

Hopes adrift in the swarm.

Tossed and turned around steeple,

Crowded beds keep'em warm.

Far too late, a little early

To get up in the night.

Alleys out there seem way eerie,

To pretend pelts worth the fight.

Bells shall toll, but for the living:

Marbles scattered in the yard.

Those who left need not forgiving

For they knew how to depart.