Outside, it still snows.
Eight or ten inches they tell us, another reminder
that despite the calendar’s proclamation,
winter still reigns.
Seasons have no calendar,
like souls, they rise and fall with no regard
to propriety or plans.
Spring will come. Snow will melt.
This you know.
Only the schedule is in doubt.
and so for now, you look out the window,
at the soft sameness of the falling snow,
and dream of flowers,
with deepest green and brightest yellow.
About this poem
It could be about the snow falling outside my windows this morning. It could be about love in old age. It could be about finding our way to faith after a long wandering in the wilderness. Your life. Your call.