Hang on. Hang on tight.
The evenings of crickets and porch-light moths are on their way;
Richness of a summer's eve, and
Punctuation to days of sun. Oh the sun!
Robbed from these winter days; fondly touted as principle role
In the languid heat of a July afternoon,
Ripe with blossoms, barbecues, or the soothing liquor of
heated pine needles on a granite shore.
It is tough, this winter gauze, lowering from the sky, day after day,
Forcing us to know ourselves, tangling us in self and motive.
'Easy, as creatures of light, to find joy with waves and sand,
Or steaming over a snow-covered expanse brushed with
Sunny sequins.
But it is under this fractured promise; thaw and grey and heavy,
That we are driven to endure the intrigue of our deeper thoughts;
Intense and haunting, stuck and rolling in this web of humanity.
Hang on. Yes, hang on tight.
Dare to take on this posturing dullness and embrace your strength;
There rooted deep in the softness of your yearning.
It is rich and round. It fills you and moves you, as it should.
Just be careful of the edges; the sharp edges of your more
Sneaky, unbeckoned ideas, prone to tipping and
Cracking toward oblivion if acknowledged.
So don't acknowledge. Just let them pass.
Hold, instead, to the gauze lifting and the sun hitting its mark again,
And you, relieved, but stronger for its absence.