The Winter of Some Years
The winter of some years sails on ice
hope freezes over, as the days pile in drifts
grey and silver, white and cold, lean and starving.
Gone, the plump, the rich, the wildly creative
still as frost on glass panes and closed books.
I never did learn to find my you in dreams.
The winter of some years is a bite, a gnawing
painful lethargy in over-stuffed chairs,
the fire cold, the room filling with icicles and snow.
When Springs wets the window, it’s late
All that turned to ice, now turns to slush.
Some years are just forgotten… forever.
June 23, 2014