For a blanket of ice it seems rather calm.
The same grass I’ve lain would freeze me to death.
And though I’d be cold I know that my breath
would be the last warmth of my heart’s content.
It seems rather odd that something so smooth
would chill you to death without looking back.
While wind-whipping winds would cover your chest
and not know or care of your heart’s arrest.
It is rather strange that the same soothing rains
from summer’s long past now reign down as ice.
And it’s rather unfair that the same summer air
is now grumpy winds that slice through your hair.
But that’s winter for you, and winter for all.
I wait for the spring, and even miss fall.