In the Dead of Winter

from by Meg Ashling

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Lyrics from a poem by Jason Frank, music by Meg Ashling


The distant sun is sinking fast,
The clouds are tangled in their flight.
Trembling reeds, with shadows cast
Are sketching lines of black on white.
Down the orchard through the dark,
The breath of winter blooms to bristle:
Furnished by the frozen spark
Of frosted cedar, thorn and thistle.

The sugar maple, stripped of leaves
Along her little boggy brook
Is cursing snow and ice as thieves,
Pining for the green they took
While icicles which oft encumber
Angles more precipitous
Infringe upon her naked lumber,
Mockingly deciduous.

The elder moose will lose his crown,
Humbled when his hunger groans.
His haggard hide will wither down
And choke the marrow from his bones.
The chickadees will not rejoice
Until the wolves attack a deer.
Blood for blood will raise the voice
Of all the cheerful birds we hear.

No moon will dim the stars tonight
And light the snow for sleepless eyes,
Though fang and flesh will reunite
And none be taken by surprise.
As brutal as the dawn may be,
The woods have got to run their course.
A song will ring from tree-to-tree—
Enjoy the song, if not the source.


from The Prairie Pulled Me Under, released October 4, 2013



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Meg Ashling Austin, Texas

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