Seasons of Being (Part 3): Winter

Like a gear slowly rusting 

With feet like cement 

We are zombies of snow and sleet 

Brain fog taking control 

Hands turned to ice at the end of stiff limbs 

Rigor mortis like a dead soul in warm blood 

How to hold anyone with fingers like the dead? 

Mind fighting with mouth to open up 

and sculpt the thoughts to words  

And shaking blood to the ends of the toes 

Chiseled smile and eyes like ice 

Running like a frozen stream 

Winter is the time for rest  

But none is what we get 

Creaking and groaning, press on and up 

And every once in a while look 

And see the glittering snow on the pines 

The pale pink that the clouds turn 

As if they see us looking 

And start to blush 

Diamond are the hills 

And the soles of our shoes 

With snow coating every surface 

And we remind ourselves to tunnel  

Until we find not the spear of an icicle 

But a blade of greenery.