Thrasher's Call

Hibernal nights stretch dark, vast canvas skies, to mark new time; as gleaming rows of rime declare, in light sublime, “take heed: the blossom of light’s seed has sprung from sleep indeed; the gloam of dusk, its bed of loam; its soil, its earthen home with us; its roots, a holding truss to guide and grow the lush love-bloom that, thriving ‘mid the gloom, breaks ground: life from the tomb!”