Winter and other temporary things

The cold
blows bitter with cold,
an evil, creeping cold
crawling through every crack
in your old house,

the wind rattling the windows,
lifting the curtains in a dance,
mocking the illusion
that you are safe from the weather.

The fire in the stove burns hot
but cannot keep up
with the unrelenting winter air.
Slowly,
inexorably
your bones freeze.

It has been that kind of year,
brutal, mocking, cruel.
Unrelenting in it’s loss of warmth,
leaving you exposed, tender, raw,
far more fragile than even you would like to admit.
huddling by your stove of God and love,
savoring their warmth,
waiting for a spring that seems everdistant
yet
is closer than you think.

About this poem

We’ve all been there.

Tom