Weary child,
sleep tonight in the thick
nest of freezing March
one last time,

and I promise
tomorrow you will wake
to a morning of gold,
the bedroom shining
like a Byzantine palace
direct from Yeats’ fevered dreams,

the east window a prism
for the flood of dawn’s
achingly beautiful light,
warm, iridescent, and
doused with springtime.

It’s not much, but it’s a little something.