My Winter
         by Sarah Elizabeth Hume


    The crystal is falling now,
    like river water it slowly drifts.
    It collects in puddles,
    in fields,
    in boggy creeks where no lilies are found.

    The winter is dying now
    faster than she wanted to.
    For shadows are soon to flee
    once the gold begins to waken.
    And like the depths of shrouded night
    when overcome by cold silver stars,
    a light that blossoms is soon to grow
    and so the dawn has spoken true.

    But where shall I be now?
    The buds of spring birth newly emerald 
    and their vines twist spindly towards the blue,
    while mine search only for cloudy bleak gray.
    When the frosted glass has cleared and sparkles,
    when eventide slumbers and her waves slow to ripples,
    while my night remains constant and shrouds the candle
    known to all as golden day.

    How does one let the spirit thaw
    when sickles hang tightly and oceans of salt water are 
    solid as stone,
    when the heart is frozen into place and could not feel 
    a dagger's pierce.

    But to this I say: "Let the spring come."
    It shall anyhow to make mockery of solitude
    and jest at the ice of coated iris.
    It shall replenish the earth and grow crimson gowns
    and flourish whilest I freeze in my snow ridden grave,
    so empty of wind sewn grasses and warm melting rain.

    It shall not fade the winter of my soul.