Outside in the yard,

spring’s green garden grows dormant;

ice holds to the ground.

Petals fall like snow.

As I walk through the garden,

the cold kills the rose.

My son wants something:

I can only be myself.

Winter’s wind is cold.

Ice covers the grass;

Even inside, I am cold.

All my friends have gone.

The low grey clouds hang like shrouds;

the cold grows into the night.

(January 15, 2024)