Exhaling the fog of a winter’s morn
Contemplation sets in as the pen spills his blood
The birds of the lifeless trees ignore him
As does the quiet world which lie distant
Leafless branches hang, broken, dipping their last
touches into the river
All is calm on the surface, but certain doom lies within
the slow, persistent current
The death of winter approaches silently, taking only a
few
Lest it be left alone to vanquish even itself without recognition
Glimpses of life and renewal lay hidden beneath the carnage
of the season
Hues of demise suffocate even the most hearty of tendrils
and sprigs
They will get their season of change and growth
But their time is not yet come
“How do they do it?” he wonders.
“How do they stay silent among the ruin of their former
selves?”
“How do they suffer so beautifully, patiently, and yet do
not doubt
For a more glorious day ahead?”
His heart diminishes, for he has neither part nor purpose
as they do in the world.
And yet he clings to a hope that the sun may one day
shine for him, as for them.
That he will feel the warmth of a new season
Amongst the fading shade of winter, death.
