The lion will not sleep tonight –
no, neither in his body nor his mind.
And now the sun,
if any is,
has not the tropic splendor
of the month meet for the lion,
but a cold orb is –
still gold, but frosted over
with the chill of snow forthcoming.
There is no madness in the zodiac,
no shooting stars to paint the midnight sky
with cosmic ribbons.
And now the lion,
bound up in that dark cave of his own choosing,
will close his eyes
and think on how he once strode
lordly in the light,
mane full and blazing in the summer’s fire,
softly padding paws then able
to take him to those places he had need to be
and fast away from places he had not.
His pride forsaken –
all abandoned to their own devisings –
his solitary majesty begins to grey to nothing
for there is no one to adore it.
He does not love the cold alone,
but will not stoop
to bear the company of winter creatures.
And now comes night;
there is no prey for all the lakes are frozen.
No sleek quarry comes to slake its thirst, unwary.
They have fled, these summer meals,
taking their hotness and their blood
to sweeter climates.
And now the snow,
each flake as fat and thick as cotton blossom,
falls from a sky as leaden as the skin
of three-day corpses.
This winter lion,
this dethroned king of beasts,
growls softly as he dens,
and, stoic, waits his turn
to once more govern all he sees.
© 2013 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
The ebb and flow of life.