Winter’s Destruction of Summer

 November the fifth has come and gone,
now winter lands around us. My hands,
white as fallen ash from a fire long devoid
of heat, creak and groan as they are forced
to write meaningless words in servitude to
a body that will never appreciate them.

The cold engulfs me. Nothing can exist
in this state. Neither clever words nor thought
of wayward dreams survive the onslaught of
winter's destruction.

And yet there is a beauty brought about by the
nothingness. A beauty of light and crystallised
moisture upon a spider's web. A beauty of
dancing leaves, yellow golden brown, as they
tango their way toward the soils so eager to
meet them. A beauty of sound as the flocks of
geese gather in fields, preparing for their
onward journey to distant lands I can only dream
of.

Yet dream I can. Suddenly the destructive cold
around me becomes comforting as it reveals the
changing nature of thought. Not a destruction,
a preparation for the coming spring. The period
of rest required to renew itself for the field to
glisten with gold and trees to once more provide
generous protection from the burning heat of
summer.

Sinking into the comforting cold, hands as
white as the beautiful snow that will visit soon,
I can rest content.