Winter isn’t dead.
Look closely–you can hear her breathing.
Inside, there’s a fire going;
Outside, there are other ways to keep warm.
You can see the seeds of things to come.
Winter stirs and, all at once,
shedding what she no longer wants.
I remember thinking
as a boy
Why do the trees lose their leaves?
Doesn’t that make them colder?
But those clothes hold Winter back.
She is freer without them.
Sometimes you need
“You should stay inside,” she whispers.
People always complain
about how cold Winter is.
You’d be cold, too,
in her condition.
Tilting on her axis,
bent away from hearth and home,
can you really blame her?
But who is Winter,
Is she the harsh authoritarian?
Is she the howling wind and hail?
Or is she the snow, covering up the soil
for the roses
to keep them warm,
the soft breeze whispering
that calls you home.
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