Come the Winter

Weston Cann

This season of life has worn so thin,
so threadbare, that fall —
those moments of things alive divesting
themselves in tragic splendor, unraveling,
tearing, unwinding — this begins to show
past moments of indian summer. Now —
such sunshine as happy memories hold
is only so cruel as to bring harsh rays of remembrance
into the shadows of a frostbitten heart,
like warm water on frozen hands.
So, then, come the winter;
come those chilled winds full of killing and change,
of summer and leaves lost to litter.
Come the laughter of icicles and serenity
of snowflakes covering all concerns
of growth with white and even. With this death,
with this hope from despair,
yes, then, come the winter
if only on risk
of spring.