Winter: A Poem

Wearied, braced by bitter winds;
darkness longer than light.
Face like flint set hard against,
plastered with ice.

Branches barren, groaning,
heavy with wet snow.
Dying to die, to break,
to fall and know the burden no more.

Alone in a crowded wood.
Alone surrounded by worn,
weathered others of its kind.
Surrounded, and yet alone.

Whither the first-born
buds that herald new life?
Whither the welcomed burden
of bird perched with life-song on its branches?

Will the sun-warmed winds
of spring come again?
Will this death, too,
be followed by life?