Babes nude and baldly
Their cries crack from sleep like wind snapped twigs.
Imploring the stark sky for her
She rushes, hushes
And blankets in opalescent white.
Unknown beyond a given name
What glory in potential wakes
To grow, to be,
To flower, to flourish secrets
Like the still trees?
Why do poets assign it death
When one sees life's self in Frosted breath?
December's last kissed new to first
With beauteous, snowy, milk to nurse
I would say winter's much like birth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem