I know why
Winter is drab,
Bleak, grey, dismal,
Sad, dead.
I know why
Living in the city
Makes a walk through dirty streets
Deny any colour to
Surprise and uplift,
Where Winter has died unto itself.
I know why there is no patience with crisp, golden days,
Told by joyous strangers in muddy boots,
Get out more
They say as if that is the answer when
Really it is prolonging the truth,
That here has no life and I’m best
In central heated denial on built-up land,
In man-made, bill-paid
Comfort.
I know why what they means is really,
Winter has slept all this while,
And to look upon a loved one in deep,
Innocent,
Exhausted rest
Is to view beauty unbound by living requirements.
Is to look at living in stasis,
And only then do the visions of creation begin to show.
Pine cone in Fibonacci perfection on my windowsill,
Opened up in the last light moments of the Slumber in blueprint infallibility,
Made in Winter and found on the day of Equinox
And I know why there is no fear,
Of muddy booted preachers,
Nor the awakening trees,
Nor even of the time of rest,
Because the blueprints are beautiful
And the story even more so,
And to hear them and
See them
in the darkest,
Most fearful days
Is to hold knowing like a feather of hope
Nwyfre 