Son Winter Poet I do not know?

The Vision

When I close my eyes I see winters; mountains that are hugged with snow, valleys that are 
suffocated by artic winds. The tingles in the lakes and rivers are the reflection of the eyes, 
the eyes of the life that has been frozen in the confines of a motionless liquid. Parts of the 
ground are warm where forbidden spirits slip back into life for purposes unknown by any 
mortal. A child in a window fascinated by the winter elements, a smile on his face that fogs 
the window, a fog that shatters the glass allowing this same child to become personal with 
winter"s touch. As tattered pieces of an old blanket conceal a woman with a pillow of 
concrete, hopes of summers remove despair only for the same despair to b missed. Still she 
smiles, this same smile that allows winter to give her soul a chill. The people look to the 
heavens for the signs of a rainbow to come, the hope is met with the falling of ice that sinks 
it"s frosted fangs into all that is as it once did to all that was. Drums of fire align the streets, 
huddlers gather with outstretched hands shedding tears as the fire massages the tips of their 
fingers and breathes on their faces. Yet there is no refuge as frozen advocates of this 
articsphere relinquish the inspiration of the fire. Everywhere there is hope for a summer to 
come, so that this winter may pass, yet we are at the end of june... My eyes were never 
closed.

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