A shift in the scenery
Silver-wigged leggy Sage,
I woke to find you pale and strange.
Stranger still, the stage on which
cold feet are firmly planted.
Now yours, to play a king enthroned,
amongst the colonnades of ice,
set free of gardener's whims and tones,
head held high, undaunted.
Not birthright worn or artifice,
winter's cloth adorns your age
in pristine, crystal pantalons,
costume Earth has granted.