I love the icy nights of latter fall.
The frosty air against my skin relieves
The harms and bends that summer left with brawl;
As tress must do, I too shall shed my leaves—
The leaves of hate, of rue, of nothing good.
Even in death there is some light for all.
It is the season cold prevails, the wood
Of trees mock those who can’t let tall
Deceptive tales unpunished go. I must
The sand act like and stab wounds heal,
Though scars may mark my skin as rust.
As snow does melt, the problems I do feel.
For though it is a somber time, the cold
A cleansing factor is; if I can be paroled.