This winter’s been hard on the family tree.
Its canopy of leaves is dropping fast.
Three aunts, two uncles — finally, today
on Valentine’s, an orphan left am I.
It’s how the game is played: no one gets out
alive. It only matters what we do
with time that’s given us, before we’re called
to that last meeting with eternity.
Yet glorious life goes on. Young blossoms rear
their heads, and in the east breaks forth the first
pale rays of sunlight. In the poet’s words,
“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”
Its canopy of leaves is dropping fast.
Three aunts, two uncles — finally, today
on Valentine’s, an orphan left am I.
It’s how the game is played: no one gets out
alive. It only matters what we do
with time that’s given us, before we’re called
to that last meeting with eternity.
Yet glorious life goes on. Young blossoms rear
their heads, and in the east breaks forth the first
pale rays of sunlight. In the poet’s words,
“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”
