The Winter is chained onto each of my bones.
It has been in my father’s bones, and it is in mine.
When deafening silence fills fields of snow,
And whispers of death around the valley
Reassure that all is right in the world.




The Spring is mixed within with my blood.
It has been in my father’s blood, and it is in mine.
When we remember what the world can be,
And senses flourish to sweet and soft,
It all begins again.




The Summer is melded with my skin.
It has been in my father’s skin, and it is in mine.
When we remember our hopes and dreams
And everything is possible,
In that perfect sunset.  




The Fall is nestled deep within my heart.
It has been in my father’s heart, and it is in mine.
When quiet talks blow mouth to mouth,
And echo creaking floorboards of far off footsteps,
On a Sunday afternoon.