The chill of winter is upon us,
Not the hush.
In this land of rain and wind,
What silence there is, is summer's.
Having come to my third and thirtieth year,
The chill seems colder.
Not yet old....yet older.
Surely I am mocked in my age.
Where are the passions that rage?
Where the images pyrning from my mind...
The frenzy of intensity?
My voice is still.
My mind seething..holds no images.
No exercise of will,
No relaxation of the soul
May coax the words to flow.
The marrow chilled.
Chilled the mind.
Soul season mated to the true.
Age spirals unto age as phase by phase
The mind engages earth, air, fire, water....
Embracing fools, embracing sages.
Time turns and gyres to the end
Yet ends are but beginnings, perhaps....
Perhaps, dichotomy breeds choice,
And spring the season of my voice....
Is that a songbird I hear singing?
Winter lays cold upon my soul,
Yet, barefoot Spring is winging.
Copyright (c) Sept 1976 by James R. Hoye