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Literature Text
You give up some things, here in Winter. April for one.
And June. You may dream of them if you wish, but be sensible.
Hope is luxury, incongruous against the ice.
Summer failed you, that much is clear. As did Spring.
You cleared the decks for Autumn, its mysticism, and for what?
You're free now. After a while you'll find the cold
isn't so bad. Comforting, anesthetic; you need never feel at all.
You've come to the right place. It's safer here,
living without the sun.
And June. You may dream of them if you wish, but be sensible.
Hope is luxury, incongruous against the ice.
Summer failed you, that much is clear. As did Spring.
You cleared the decks for Autumn, its mysticism, and for what?
You're free now. After a while you'll find the cold
isn't so bad. Comforting, anesthetic; you need never feel at all.
You've come to the right place. It's safer here,
living without the sun.
wooden walls sprayed with magenta flowers and ice.
What now? I asked, ‘Now we wait’, you said.
What now? I asked, ‘Now we wait’, you said.
© 2012 - 2024 EmmaSloane
Comments25
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I understand this is probably not literal, but it works that way too for us in the north. I like it. It feels comforting.