I look out the window upon this perpetual winter,

A cup of coffee in hand with decades of frost resting

On the bushes and the trees that I can recall

A memory of a memory of when they were young.

The songs I knew are silent, the colors I remember

Are washed away, and I stare into this beautiful

Span with a moment of fear, the sun a bitter reminder

Of what warmth could feel like if enough.

I wonder, silently, then audibly, if the sweater with

Its worn out sleeves or the scarf that leaves

A trail of wool on every garment it touches are

Suitable replacements for the sun this day.

I sip, I wonder more. Will the frost break,

Will that flower that I saw peeking out from under

The snow be given a chance to make it. The hints

Of an end come and they go without an end.

My thumb caresses the line where the coffee ends

At the exterior of the cup, maybe tea would have been

Better, brighter, but without honey and with herbs

Dried from seasons ago, I don't know.

I draw the curtain shut, I read, I write, I let it

Pass me by and each day I open the window to

An unchanging face, to an unchanging landscape

That threatens to erase the memory.

I look out the window upon this perpetual winter

And I wonder for the memory of spring,

For the love of summer, and for the desecration

Of autumn that left me, alone, in the cold.