Why comes the winter with its bitter winds,
its drifts of snow and ice that run too deep,
as though the Earth the summer’s warmth rescinds
and kills the rose we tried past June to keep?
Why does the gentle sparrow flee the spare
and brittle boughs for warmer southern climes,
yet I remain on pages, white and bare,
until this January greens in rhymes?
For there’s no winter to a weathered heart,
whose beat has blossomed to love’s blush, then lost
its rosy rhythm when love falls apart,
like flowers, petrified by dirty frost.
Amidst the dead of winter, we will thrive
through words that flourish here, our love alive.