Wolves of December

The bitter wind
can no longer reach our skin
 as winter cowers in defeat.
We are the pride of this season.
Standing erect above the frozen city
we open our mouths
and sing our ecstasy
to the waning moon
our thirst, our hunger
to the hidden sun
and leave our sweet scent
for the nostrils
of the morning.

© 1998 - William Edward Ilse