Release
By Scott Hansen
Late autumn, in that chilling cage,
He placed the better part of nine
Confusions, thoughts perplexed and sage,
To pickle in his wrinkled brine.
December brought him fast and low,
A curtained, wailing kind of place.
One thought flew, but eight were slow,
Content there in their meand’ring pace.
Until, with Eros’ arrows loosed,
That warm and snowy day of hearts,
His second thought was soon seduced
By her darker, nimbler arts.
So on and on, past ides of gloom,
His fortress cracked and brittle grew.
She spun the third on golden loom,
And taught him how to love anew.
Four was subtle, fast and deep,
And five escaped with tender care.
But six, she drew forth in his sleep,
Her lips so soft, her skin so fair.
By summer’s moon, he knew he’d lost,
His mind submerged in all she’d shown.
He laughed at what his fears might cost
And opened the cage, and found them flown.
Just dusty leaves, the scent of pine,
Some lingering doubts therein remained.
His dreams had led him to a sign
That read, to him, of futures pained.
Wisdom’s weak when love is near,
And much seems fit to sacrifice.
But no good life is made of fear,
And no cage safely made of ice.
