Why Winter


Windows reflect a gloomy sky; as dreary light stains the panes. Clouds cluster as smoky spiders awaiting juicy treats.

Slowly, dying leaves signal the arrival of fall, and the subsequent winter. Everywhere: A picturesque brilliance of browns, yellows, and oranges, beautifully adorns the landscapes, and of course, the trees. Tony frets because he hates winter; he hates cold.

His favorite seasons are spring and autumn; Tony cares nothing of the remaining months, mostly wishing that they would disappear; and especially the humid sticky months of summer.

His youth insulated the lad from winter’s wrath; delightfully, he even enjoyed sledding, and ice skating and other things that his friends and he would do.

These days, Tony fondly remembers the excitement, and as much as he commits to it, rarely would he venture out to play; those days are long gone. Always, tomorrow, maybe. Fantastically, the wishful man draws lines in the sands; daring winter to cross. That’s right, step back, folly is the labyrinth of fools, and the path to “fool school” is unattractive, perilous. The inquisitive man ponders (just) one simple question:

Why Winter

Slowly, as winds chill the trees,
an icy tail sweeps the skies.

Trees stiffen as frigid fingers stab
and pierce crusty barks.

Dank puke sprays the lands as
swelling clouds slap high fives.
Coursing, birds fly inside the misery.

Everything ripe for the picking;
summer evolves from plush greenery
to ice, snow and muddy plaque.

The air grows colder.

I cannot help but wonder, why winter
smiles with invasive discomforts,
unwanted perils and devastation,
with her cold and frozen face.

Why is she wantonly brutal.
Why must we surrender.
Why not simply, go away.
Why?… She never listens.

A cool sun lights the sky;
tree limbs supplicate as apples dangle.
A cringing canvas displays the fruits
as cold candy reds.

Then a bird trills, I languish inside
its harmonies; I stir its chromatic fire.
The song is hypnotic; yet, I distract…
Does the creature wary of winter.

Cold hurts me.

Mornings: I berate my bed;
“How ‘dare’ you push me out!”
Mocking the day,
I wish for better times.

I wish, for spring.

Copyright ©2014 Delbert H. Rhodes

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