The season,
in and of himself,
is beautiful. A thing of unequivocal
equality because everyone
suffers the same
for reasons they cannot control
and they all smile to you
because they know it is true,
though they do not know
it is your year around.
Have faith in man
because he will not admit he bleeds,
but he still will fall
face first, dancing,
on sidewalk ice,
the same as you.
He will still shiver
in the minutes before the heat settles and
he dreams of sleep
as hard as you do
some summer nights.
The season in and of itself
is miserable
by definition
and beautiful
by composition.
Have your tears in Winter and
the world will cry with you.
Have your loneliest years in Winter and
the world will be alone with you.
Write your letters in Winter and
every soul will be waiting to hear from you.
Start your fires in Winter and
I will be there, palms out,
gloves off, more ready to receive
the heat of no oneness
than I otherwise would ever be.
