Revolution seems an inappropriate term to use

in winter, when silence and stillness lie for miles.

Days dawdle, half-awake. They lounge around

in pyjamas and don't do their hair;

only nights seem formally attired

in spangled finery; the moon, a flat piece of silver

to grace a little black dress, or a gambler's coin

tossed through the dark.

Life's business goes on underground or inside,

unseen by most, yet all unfolds unnoticed,

revolving and rotating towards that time

when day will emerge - sun's first blush,

clean as a daisy, fresh as a whistle

for no reason at all but life's pattern,

and then we dance our summer revolutions

careless and carefree, out of doors.