Slowly, tentatively at first,
the world roused itself.

The hard merciless frost
yielded and the soft heady
redolence of damp loam
and fresh flowers rose
into the pure air.

Up above,
in the limpid azure sky,
the great bright orb
of the sun climbed,
high and assured,
its deep intoxicating warmth
spreading across
the luxuriant emerald pastures,
the quiet shadowed glades,
the clear dulcet brooks.

The animals crept diffidently
from their dens then,
reveling at their
benignant welcome,
galloped in joy
through the blooming vista.

The world had been resurrected,
drawn out of the dark boreal void
it had been consigned to.

But amid
this vital scene,
a man stood motionless,
golden head bowed,
as if in fervent prayer,
staring
into the still pool
below him.

Into the image of
his entranced face.

Rapt eyes.
Transfixed by the dead
picture in the tranquil mirror.

Around him, fragrant breezes
whisper.
Birds wheel above,
singing with merriment.

The whole verdant tableaux
pulses with vibrant life.
And still the ghastly static
goes on and on.