IT’S WINTER

IT’S WINTER

by

Jamie Dedes

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No illusions, no illusions, no lies, no softening of the truth,

no tears, no bargains, though sun shines and birds sing,

Winter is here, I know.

Winter is too crisp and sharp to invite either love or lechery,

and those men, husbands and lovers, see through it to seasons

young and not so inclined to ponder as one man complained,

while I watched the grass die, the leaves dry, the earth harden,

cold winds blowing over the graves that house our bodies.

And I being me was always asking

“Why”

Once Spring danced like wild flowers in the wind,

held dew and promise and smiled like a well-fed babe.

It hadn’t heard the word defeat and didn’t know hate or anger.

Spring liked to play, to romp, to sing and

she hung her question on a tree to ripen –

“Why”

Summer took itself seriously, was wide-eyed with longing, sizzling in the sun.

It wore a red dress and the champagne happiness of a husband and baby

and bravado because Summer is young and youth is bold,

a silver bell that rings and rings and never stops.

Too much is not enough and yet – a tremulous

“Why”

Autumn gently smiled, like Da Vinci’s lady, and danced old dances,

reminisced Begin the Beguine, stepping lightly on brown leaves.

It was lined with gold and muted silks, remembered is manners,

nodded wisely, spoke sagaciously , and was a might too profound.

Haughty with itself, it just knew it knew

“Why”

Winter…Winter is content, sees itself in Time displaced and learned

laughter has meaning and fleshy bonds and boundaries dissolve.

A bit stiff, cold, and slow now, slowing to honor the sacred,

to say “i love you,” to say “it was good,” to say “thank you.”

Sun rise, sun set, and once dormant trees burst forth with green,

sanguine and serene, just a habit now that question

“Why”