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
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