the turn of a moon

yet everything ends with a turn
of the moon,
until everything dead lives again

and... fool...
might I cry out 
at the withering earth
yet still crave the starkness of
snow,
ever longing for respite and a
comfort to know
that my ladies keep safe
in the bitter soft flow

because everything dies when
the moon turns an eye,
and then everything dead must
again likely rise, though

I no longer watch as the skies
rage insane
as the ladybirds frost
with the colours of pain

because everything ends with
the turn of a moon,
and then everything dead likely
rebirths to doom....
once again