Split-tongued hiss to summon season, ridged with jagged rusted nail.
First the Autumn hushed and heaving, lilting thusly hedge turned brown.
Next with wintry ice still leaving, springing from eternal wells.
Licked from entry way to exit, neither stifling nor in vain.
Taste of evermore in summer, shut to fingers deep in pain.
Still in whisper, clasped in coatis, shudder, shiver, not quite there.
Enter only once in longing, free to leave and stripped now bare.
Amidst the racket of my hammer, come on in sir, if you dare.
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