In sleep, I die a little more
Than where I’d been the night before.
My heart, tho’ pounding in my chest,
Wanes each and ev’ry passing breath
For nothing done can now restore.

By day, I live a little less.
Time marches on. I only guess
I’m closer to a bitter end
As Time has never been my friend,
Tho’ much was wasted, I confess.

I pause, contrite, in deep lament
For useful energy— never spent,
Or opportunity— never taken;
Disappeared— left forsaken,
Wond’ring where my youth was sent?

Now, I could dwell and wonder why
In pity for my clouded eyes,
Or rise, take in, as chances wait
For open heart. It’s not too late
To live before my time to die!

Low is Winter, dressed in white,
Short by day, long by night,
Sleeping flora, muted light,
Betrays the wonder of my sight.

Lest ye love Winter’s grasp
Holding tight her frigid fast;
Pray to sun and green of past
So far away, a doubt is cast.

Maketh mercy, thoughts o’ small
Find a warmth from minded wall,
But cold is fact and doth forestall.
Fantastic dreams don’t work at all.

So, leave me Winter, now depraved,
Dependent to the source you gave.
Restless for the warming wave
And green of leaf in conscious, save.