Winter

The colorful village is now a monochrome white The fire crackles emitting warmth and light In the humble home of the once child of spring Is an old bedridden man, still and waiting The winter is harsh, ever so cold Not a trace left of the youth so bold From the man in bed now frail and weak The winter is harsh indeed But, weak and old as he may be Look into his eyes and you can see That though the seasons have passed him by Even with the knowledge that he soon will die

In his eyes are remnants of a life well spent A life of joy, sorrow, and fulfilment