I love the winter.
It helps me forget about the summer,
when you slipped away.
The flowers I picked for you are still here,
drowning in muddy waters,
clinging to final hopes of calling it home.
The colors have faded
The petals have aged since being plucked from the earth.
The edges become brittle,
and fade to an ugly black.
But the core remains colorful.
The mosaic of pinks and reds are youthful.
But in winter, these flowers don’t last long.
As the chill gets colder,
the winds more abusive,
and the tumultuous sky all the more ominous,
the flowers’ last vestige of life
is nearly spent.
The black ridges creep in along the petals,
choking out any color until gray becomes dominant.
Even the core capitulates eventually.
The flowers decay in silence
With no one to watch their petals wither.
Some time in the night
The petals fall to the floor
and they are scattered about in the gloominess of the early morning,
discovered only when the first few rays of light
peek above the snowy horizon.
But by then, they have become jagged, crusted shards
of ash.
I enjoy the winter mornings.
I enjoy the blizzards that every so often terrorize the earth.
I love stepping into them
And wishing my ashes too can be blown away.
I love the winter.
It helps me forget about the summer,
when you slipped away.