Winter

In winter, as the freezing fog 

floats friendless ‘cross the frozen field. 

I watch the lost and lonely jog 

and to my dread depression yield. 

The shrouded, silent, silver sun 

stands still, or so it seems to me. 

And only mortals dare to run 

away from God’s eternity. 

By noon, when dreary darkness falls, 

I hear a soulful singing bird. 

From tree to tree the creature calls. 

He hopes, by one, he will be heard. 

At dusk, when all our dreams expire 

and empty, aching hearts grow cold. 

Those thoughts, once fed with Jesus' fire, 

turn grey, from summer’s gleaming gold.