As winter unravels, dropping stitches at our feet,
We are as confused as any bird or bud, coming up for air.
Too-long strolls are undertaken by old lovers in the park,
Their arthritic fingers clasped in a death-grip of affection.
Chistmas pups enjoy the spotlight, watering the trees with abandon,
Their roly-poly bodies fail them as they perform their three legged ballet.
Trees struggle into leaf to provide their public face for Spring,
Limbs still strewn with the burnished debris of autumnal decay.
A small crowd gather to dedicate a new bench to a fallen Father
or Brother. Women dessed in summer wisps holding their hats in place.
Winters’ last dance will come as surely as ever, disappointing many,
Though renewal waits in the wings, learning her lines until cued.