OEM?

That open before me? What I see
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
To reach out into its own vanishing
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Is the moon to grow
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
And beyond, the same sound of bees
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,