Winter Poem

Winter is the grim reaper of the seasons, the executioner of green and the mother of gray.

We pretend to love for the holidays and that sense of rebirth in the new year.

Really we're just surrounded by the passing of the seasons, from life to death.

From our fat summer existence, holding on, clinging to the memories of the warmth we felt not so long ago.

But yet the summer breeze is dissolved, the orange leaves are starting to decay and all that is left is the cold prison of winter.

But no reason to be afraid, there is that glimmer right over the rooftops, it is the golden light of spring.

That glimpse is what we live for, our only inspiration to survive this season of death and despair.

Slowly counting our days; the days to the warmth and rejuvenation of summer.

Even when is seems that it will never end it begins to warm.

The thaw starts from the toes and works it way up and by the time it gets to our heads and we fully realize it, that glimpse of spring is no longer a glimpse, but our reality.