The weather’s mood-swings show the folly of predictions.
The steady loss of daylight is more reliable,
and desolate. This imperceptible theft is a
harbinger of winter’s inexorable approach.
Snow, like the coroner’s sheet, confirms Death’s arrival.
Yet its routine presence conceals a truth that’s vital:
Beneath its pervasive mask, all has not died but sleeps.
After winter solstice, pilfered daylight is returned.
Nature knows this. Beyond the sun’s light but not its warmth,
Perennials long hidden ‘neath frozen earth will sprout.
Their cyclical nature, though comforting, seems foreign.
We are like annuals: once planted, will not return.
In this, the current phase of our linear journey,
We may seem to dwell in darkness—like the buried bulbs.
An unseen Power reaches though the dark to warm us,
And we can choose to respond if we have been alert.
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