Winter

Let us face the season squarely. Winter's not
Not a time of birth and plenty. It's the time
Of death, the stark and threatening stretch
Of months in which to cower by a fire on a
Day which passes quickly, mourning all which
Has been lost. The hucksters, eager for a buck,
And zealots, for whatever reason, crowd in
With their treacly greetings. "Merry Christmas."
"Purchase something." "This is when our god
Was born." He was, it's said, out in the cold.
He's lucky that he didn't freeze. There was
No joy in his first winter. Do not try to brighten
Mine. Winter is the time to mourn.
Let joy return in spring.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 48 times
Written on 2017-11-27 at 17:05

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