The shortest month is oft the longest;
I know this much is true.
When grey and black and white are all the colors not intentional,
When grey and wet combine with cold to make things slower,
This is when fallow falls.
Silence seems the letter of the day,
And spent is just the normal place and time;
Song and dance have faded far from mind,
And barely is, in turn, what is enough.
I will pick up the gauntlet thrown, one day.
I will unwrap my wrappings, stiff with ice,
And raise my voice, aloud, once more.
I’ll set the mantle on my brow, take up the yoke,
And find my footing.
Fallow comes to everyone,
Despite pains taken otherwise.
Best it be remembered thus –
Soonest ended, soonest mended,
Lest we forget, again, to rise.