Wake

It is warm and wet,
but still winter,
despite the spring wish
on the wind
that whispers wake.
Winter winks his weather eye -
it's still his time.
Warm and wet
for this circle and tilt,
for this spin and slant
but the stay of the sun
will be too short
for suckling -
just enough to stir
the sluggish blood
of stem and bud
with whispers wake.

Winter, blind your weather eye!
With a sigh, I eye Old Winter -
withering, winnowing Winter -
not wicked, but wise to cling to the ancient turnings
and yearnings of before and always.

My half-formed flowers,
wintered still-births;
my blooms undone by night
winds from the north
that whisper
and wail like witches
at Winter's wake.

A rough draft for Magaly's prompt at Real Toads 
Still tinkering with it