Winter’s End

Retreating snow is rushing through the stream
until it stops to crack the frozen stone
before proceeding on through winter’s dream
of alternating rhythms—if I’d known—
The sunless, mottled sky is still as gray
as death upon the barren, leafless trees
which wait in wisdom, wait until the day
when they will be delivered—still I freeze.
I know that spring is coming; it has come,
returned in glory, conquered every frost
of winter that has ever made me numb
to memories of warmth and warmth I’d lost.
Yet if I’d known, believed in winter’s end,
would I still freeze? Would I have lost my friend?

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