Spring,
time of life, of heat, beginnings
growings, season of joy, I do not
celebrate your warmth, nor rejoice
your heralding of summer, your bringing
of the fresh new growth. For I am tired, and weary
of the world, and sleep seems a balm, a soothing remedy,
And I shall go to it, when my time has
passed. As Spring must pass into Summer, Summer into Fall,
Fall into Winter, so will the seasons pass, and the whitening and
the shortening of the days come closer, ever closer, while I wait
amidst the eddies and swirls of youth and life and joy, buffeting me like
waves whipped to fury by the wind and lashing rain. Waiting, I stand.
Waiting I fall. Waiting I rise again, and wait once more for the season of silence
and darkness and soft tranquility, cool in its embrace, long in its passing.
Waiting I, for the Winter cold, and the shortening of days, and the silence over
all, imposed by death, and the frozen heart of life and joy.