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Wintersong
sung in silence
hung low and dark
where even secrets be not told

as snow falls heavy
hard on still soft ground
not yet ready for approaching
freeze and black and

long nights and endless blinding white
leaving her mark
covering traces
evidence of suffocation

It comes earlier this year
every year
how does one keep track
when tomorrow is as unsure as memories

the view subsides
and voice is muffled
whispers left unanswered
screams a part of the wind

But wake my friend
and see the last signs of life
defiant blades of withered grass still standing strong
and the last leaves tired and shriveled holding tight to

bits of color yellow gold
before the white wash comes and covers
and warmth from the sun burning
through to one tiny bit of

exposed pale flesh and
maybe
that will be all
until the end of spring

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