Winter Comes Again

Winter comes again:
its feeble sun half warms the heart;
its howling wind half chills the bone,
while barren trees reach for the sky,
and empty arms ache for a hug.

Brittle leaves are left:
freeze-dried and blown along the street,
just empty husks that rattle on
as breezes stir the memory of
the summer's warm and sunny days.

As a thief he comes:
so gently slipping through the door,
a burglar in the night, he steals
this mother's child, that daughter's dad,
a boy's best friend, one's hope for life.

Pictures, toys, and junk
are all that's left for one to hold,
and empty arms ache for a hug
when breezes stir the memory of
the summer's warm and sunny days.

Heavy hangs the sky:
its cold and grey reflect the pain;
its drops denied, too cold for rain.
So likewise hangs the heavy heart:
all tears denied, too cold to cry.

Dried up brittle leaves,
the feeble sun and howling wind,
the empty branches, empty arms,
and picture frames: reminders all
that life and death are intertwined.