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.