The Winter Hours
The Winter Hours
Cold is not my friend.
It loves me,
but it is not…
a mutual affair.
Slowly, artfully, cruelly,
my joints begin to freeze up.
They ache in the morning.
They are soar in the afternoon.
They are painful later on.
Yet the pleasure of the snow,
the soft clouds,
the holidays,
they are worth,
some discomfort.
They are worth,
things not being perfect.
In favor of all that is gained,
by their sheer lack of imperfection.
The hope of our tomorrows,
is far shorter than expressed.
Seasons, come and go…
Most without notice,
unless you plant and harvest.
How many winters are left?
How many springs are forth coming?
Will summer ever be here?
The sky warns the animals,
of dark intentions ahead.
Not out of kindness,
but natural example.
Lightening,
rain and more,
soon to follow,
before the days…
are ever long again!
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