I know winter will be blue. It’s how
the ashes of summer color the cold, and
the stubborn grass leans on my regret,
and how timid, ripe clouds—
silent angels—storm my fitful hopes
and wounded resolve.
I wait at the season’s verge
with skyward eyes, not daring
to look down,
and trust the Timekeeper of heaven
who promised, long ago, to weep
with me through the night.
Michael James Fitzgerald