The Sadness of Winter
Snow piles in the garden,
ghostly lumps of white,
vague, faceless, colorless,
robbed of life
by a winter season
that has stretched for decades,
help close by a belief
that summer is for someone else,
not for this place of deep north
that you have chose,
a place of winter,
when color surrounds you.
A sad poem, but I am not sad. I am merely remembering sadness and how it can cripple.
Winter is hitting Vermont with a vengeance and my flower beds lie under feet of snow. But I know there are flowers underneath, like these, taken last spring. You can click on the image for a larger version.