Your whisper fair warns us, yet still

we are surprised. The calendar’s last page,

and we are left feeling more. Always.

Winter: a beginning comes near the end,

while the end craves new beginnings.

The longest season, physically, or 

spiritually. Consistency, year over year, 

over year, from one into the next. 

Cold, as it is darker. Light is appreciated, 

and necessary. We grow up knowing, 

the facts of this season. Always,

our lives marked by winter.

Time, and years, have become forgotten,

but we are reminded. The soil 

and silence, frozen. Our insular existence, 

non-secular pain, wind-chafed emotions,

a reminder again. We desire

a warm touch; December, January or

otherwise. Hope, as with autumn’s last leaf, 

dangling in a greater stillness. 

A confessional. Always. Dormancy 

until early spring, what we allow or when 

we embrace. Silence. Darkness. 

We need not be surprised.

Impulse knows. We have been here before.

© 2017 j.g. lewis