What Passes in a Season

After balsam lost its sweet, marigold its bitter.
After mums blurred brown under flurries faint

but staying. After dark’s dogged increase
draped its bold chill around slim ankles

of trees. After thick-handled shovels leaned
near all doors, and all windows flaunted

their frosted prints. After the river slowed.
The pining and lusting, loving and lingering

ended. Too often light enjoys its tricks of heat
and cold, its bright winter glare the deep ache

of metal for a wound. Faded impatiens pressed
in unturned pages carry no weight of flame,

no thread of embered fire. Should we drive
this death into colder corners, bound as we are

to worship the raging sun? What passes
in a season is never reborn, not completely.

One, Issue 8, February 2016