Thrasher's Call

The wind-sweep’s sweetish chill of sylvan gasping breath as leaves blaze copper death that beacons beauty still; its cooling forge-veins fill with ore that, glowing yet with heat, from dross is cleft and shines; at last it will spring gleaming among graves when winter-chill subsides, wrought joy my soul so craves: though pressed in on all sides, my beaten soul Christ saves, by pains refines His reborn bride.