Winter’s Sorrows are the Problems of Spring’s Tomorrow
He drapes his hand over the mountains,
Brushes his fingertips over the fields.
His breath dusts the windowpanes with frosty crystals
He cries for Spring, his tears falling in crystalline flurries
Soft mounds of snow form below him as he sobs.
Laying down, he rests,
Drifting into a slumber only Spring can wake him from.
All is quiet.
This poem resounds more with a nature aspect, not something I write about often.
