In a cloud hung low your face is hidden,
carved deep into the memory of stars
like a stone statue of the god
you are, god of two faces.
You, Janus, man of winter,
you turn your frosty profile
to the past, the old, the dead
and leave us begging for a glance
ahead to spring and sun and warmth.
I wrote this last week in response to a prompt on First 50, a good place for a writer to get quick inspiration.