As much as was the awaiting,
Of a shared charm, this winter,
It arrives sans smiles, sans greeting,
To dead wood and an icy splinter.
Holding the frozen times bygone,
The faces pale and hearts cold
Sprinkle the salt a little, alone,
Upon the sweetness of the days old.
But the clouds linger just awhile,
Dispelled by a whisper like one last breath
Name of a rosebud, memory of a smile,
An assuring rose on snow-white of death.
Drops of ironies as pleasing as this,
Instil a vigour, so these charms last.
And we walk through the winter's promise,
Untogether, in the wake of a beautiful past.
N.
