Winter’s Last Walk
The fields are barren, here at dusk,
still and dark in the late winter air.
You have walked too far,
beyond the countryside that is your peace,
to the edge of civilization,
but there are no lights here either.
The factories are empty and dark,
void of color or promise, a square monument
to abandonment and the death of promises.
It is time to turn back.
to trace your path along the train tracks
back to your small house
with candles in the window,
back to your small studio
where you can paint, filling your heart
with dancing colors, music swirling
around you like a burlesque dancer, back
to your place of life and prayer,
and wait out the winter.
There is no need to come back to this place
until flowers bloom. You know the color of death.
You have lived there far too long
and you are content to wait out the season
snug in your rooms
and come here again in May,
perhaps early in the morning before dawn
and watch the sun rise
on the long awaited flowers.
About this poem
I’ve been schlepping this picture around for a while, sure there was a poem in it, but never able to find it. This morning, it found me.