In the Cold Time

I was born in the cold time,
when the frost glass cracks,
when the snow dances,
when the lines of life run rivulets through ice,
when the bare tree wind lances
the skin as it sleetly dances -
I was born in the cold time.

In the time of leaf, thistle and sprout
I was born
in the time the grass is greenest with doubt
in the time when brown is mulching about
in the time the petals are twisting tips
and berries play at bridging the thorns
in the time of the sprig and the smell of the earth
I was born.

I was born 
in the silence that sings between the stars
where the strings and the tesseracts 
wave and flutter the galactic shoal, 
where the horizon ends
where the soul eclipses the solar flare
where a quantum whisper echoes the choice
that across the cosmos in a still small voice
just then, just there