The Circle Of Life And Of Death

(Life And Death In Antarctica)

The mad winds vivacious  

are moving

the mountains of 

robust, sharp violet snow.

It is the winter’s reign

that mightily bellows

with ruthless,

savage, dreadful zest.

The sounds of hell

discordant, paltry –  

the chorus old

of long gone gods.

The lone public devoted

of the demented, dark, blues

is an Emperor’s penguins

dark, dancing, little crowd.

For the outside spectator

macabre is this.

Idolatry are the dancers,

and pagan’s the dance.   

In the core

of the rhythmic, slow movement 

the smallest

of their own  

goes around and around.

Enveloped by their dancing mothers,

encircled by protective, dancing dads,

The dance has much greater purpose –

keep the heat! Preserve frugal life!  

There’s another 
intrinsic of reasons

for the unstopping, 
so gracious dance…

Outcasting the sick and

the old ones!

So the outermost circle’s not moving - 
fading slowly in violent, brisk snow.