Who will help me carry the lead of the years?
Long gone are the friends of Summer,
And the Autumn disperses its veil of rain.
Winter winds round wilderness and city.
Snow stretched, spread thin (Winter’s got
Nothing to spare, you see) glistens chrome
Gray on my windowsill in the Winter-frost
Sun. And I am as the snow, stretched incredibly
To cover all the bases, to leave nothing bare.
It hurts. To be everywhere, nowhere at home.
In fantasy, in reality or in-between - I am stretched,
You see, and it hurts, for I am many and none.
I carry my years on my back; they’re treasure I
Cannot part with. Oh, no, they’re not gold nor
Ruby nor emerald nor sapphire nor diamond nor
Silver. Leaden are my years, but I recognize myself
In them; sometimes I wish to pull myself from within
The devouring maw of the past and sit myself in front
Of myself and talk. That’s all one needs, after all; to talk.
To be talked to. To listen. To be seen. To be loved. And,
Beyond all, to love. To have someone to love. I think of
This every winter, every snow. I think it won’t snow next
Year; don’t you see how thinly spread it is this year? Surely,
Winter spent its rations, and next Winter will be snow-less.
I think.
I hope.