In Winter’s last breath

there will be left behind

the skeletons of life

put on hold,

or lost altogether.

 

Before the living things

that remain can breathe again

on their own

The snow must melt.

Free them from its hold

 

Granted months to prosper

They will work every day

to make the most of life

before Winter’s return.

 

When once again their lives will be

Left to the swirling whims

Of the heartless season

​

B.M. Stower