What is it about winter and the grave?
Is it the cold that makes me think of death?
It brings a shiver even to the brave.
I know I’m mortal when I see my breath.
On winter nights, even the clouds will die
And fall to city streets as powdered snow.
Rivers become their bones and petrify.
Slipping and falling are the status quo.
Yet, when my heart is shriveled like a crone
And fills up with the chill of emptiness,
It comes alive when I am not alone—
When I meet winter’s “No” with Love’s warm “Yes”—
And in your arms my lonely soul I’ll save
And live to see great winter in its grave.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells