I touched the window yesterday
the pane was cold beneath my hand
for winter dwelt beyond its plane
and dipped in frost the very land.
I thought if Spring would ever come
my window would again be warm
and tell of climbing Summer sun
and mirror flash of midnight storm.
And then again the wind would blow
and glaze the earth with solemn white
my window would of Winter know
a paler sun, a deeper quiet.
Written in my journal from 1983.As I've gotten older, I've learned that life rarely rhymes,and so rarely does my poetry, anymore.