Winter.

You may think That Winter is an end; A bare stick framed in gray Spare and smooth; Caressed by cold winds Murmuring hard words The story complete.

Darkness hides subtle clues, A wall becomes a gate Heavy wood and rusty hinge Hint at more to come; Patience is a gift And time a circle.

Here at winter’s dawn Lies another book; An unknown text, Each word placed just so; The lyrics of The distant song Of Spring.