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.