The Poem That Will Never Be

It was conceived in quiet hope, within the morning’s light. But it died, as with the sunset, and this rose in the night. It was meant a chide to winter, for stealing her away, a curse to all the elements, but that was child’s play. For it is not the dark or cold, that keeps her heart from me. It never was poor nature’s fault, though it took me long to see. She wasn’t taken from me. She chose to leave me here. She wasn’t forced against her will, to sprinkle me with fear. But I am not afraid now. My mind is clear at last. I guess I’ve crossed that bridge, now. Farewell, my ghostly past. And I bid adieu to that sad dream, where winter kept her free, to inspire with love’s specter, the poem that will never be. 23 March 2016