A season groups together months
Like days into weeks,
And forgotten in the sands of time
Rests the first month,
Nameless,
Because of my oblivion
In regard to the reel of time
Of fishing line
Steadily pulling out,
As the great trespasser
Ripples my water.

Fitting that the first month
Joins the dead of winter,
Since it will be the last time
I lay my eyes
On the untouched
Ice crystalline ground;
It’s sad coming to acknowledge
That in preaching of not taking for granted
Even a second,
I myself am ripe with hypocrisy
As I took for granted such a sight.

I’m a steady ripple
Heading straight for the shores
To be stranded,
For time’s turning
Of the wheel
Is unchanged
As my destination
Approaches
More rapidly than I’m prepared
To undertake,
And nobody can save me now.