Mark Maxey's poem is about a dream that has been silenced but not killed. The speaker pictures it lying under November snow, smothered by other people's words that should have been ignored. Yet it still burns underneath, a "passion of fire" waiting for a thaw that, the poem insists, can only come from within.
The second half turns to a voice. It sits in the throat, built up from years of repressed rage, and is faintly heard again after some accidental adventure. It calls on the inner child to wake up. The speaker seems to feel both longing and regret, and a real fear of running out of time as the year ends. The questions near the close ask whether destiny can be abandoned more than once, or whether the old voice can still speak "even in November."
The mood is wintry and sad, but also hopeful. The final line, with the thaw "weeping for birth," suggests that grief and new beginnings may arrive together.