A Satyr’s Field
A mangled satyr sits in crystalline field,
Praying to Pan for the winter storm to yield.
The chestnuts are dead and the wheat is dry.
All the world is frozen-rose, holly, and rye.
The centaurs lay down to rest their weary eyes,
But the storm overtakes them and they never rise.
The fairies flitter and twitter in the snow.
Their wings freeze and bodies lose their glow.
The peaceful white lazily floats to the ground,
In secret night famine crawls out without a sound.
All the kindred rise and begin to sing,
Lifting their hopes and prayers to lost nature king.
The forest takes a deep breath and exhales with spring.
The emaciated creatures, to life they cling.
The trees begin to bloom and grass starts to grow.
A satyr gazes at lush fields, row upon row.