It's spring everywhere
but here-
this twisting iron escapade,
these halls where birds get lost,
tapestry feather frocked.

Spring everywhere but where
the sun smacks glass
and dribbles into dirt,
scratched by shadows
crawling over grass.

It can't be spring,
my boots with mud
unspinning wicked by thick pile
rug spun to pin
such specimens outstretched.

No dryads dance
these dungeons clamped
against the cliff
while flowers pressed
lace towers named by man.

Where borders creep
their unseen wildfire
from castle's caverned maw,
the flicker of a meteor
is sunrise arrow-streaked.

So train your eyes dark-
soften into stone, let
candles tune your bones,
and may you flicker
where the seasons cannot reach.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Scarlatan, in the year 993 AF.