The Heart Sings of Snow

The snow has begun again.
The weather has turned cold,
the kind of cold that slithers into your bones
and leaves you paralyzed.

You remember other winters.
Just as bitter. Just as cold.
But always, when they leave
you somehow think it is forever

and like a child, you frolic in the spring
as if it will last forever,
free and joyous and full of song.

But of course. It aways returns
with it’s raw beauty and killing cold,
and each one gets harder,

harder because age has thinned your skin
and all that is left to warm you
is a battered old heart, scarred and weary,

waiting for the warmth of April one last time
so it may live, and die,
young.

About this poem. 

It’s a love poem. I know it doesn’t read like one, but it is.

It’s a survival poem too. Sometimes the two are the same.

Tom