The Escorting

My poems have blissfully escorted me through the gamut of seasons, having afforded me not the sensations of their individual touch. I stand worlds away from the blustering wind that shudders the meekest of boughs. My hopes quaver along with their stammering vows falling from my lips like fronds from a tree. And such are the leaves that greet decay. And such are the promises to myself that become aberrant from their purpose along destiny's ever altering way. May the season of love sensate my heart and breathe into my repine a breath of everlingering sustenance and depth. The wintry wind blows wretched and bold with no whisper of love to be for now in the background of the strident sound it creates sweeping through this snow-laden town.