The warm autumn sun
mixes winter's memories
with summer's hope.
A spring with which to move forward
and away
from the dark nights,
prisoner to memory,
captive to the past.
Progress comes,
like a cloud bank of pain,
unpredicted, yet inevitable.
Like life.
The cold air wrapping around
form,
like clothes made by remembering,
chills skin and flesh.
Bites at neck,
freezes exposed ears.
Yet through the harsh edges,
emerges liquid and spilling sun,
through the biting morning air,
to warm what is left,
reminding us that endings,
are ever there.
And for now,
experience the warmth,
for this too,
will pass.
And fade,
into just another memory
of what once was now.
