Jets draw their chalk lines through the bright October skies.
Geese ignore that kind of graceless flight, surging southward in their casual triangles.
We won’t be able to hold winter back much longer.
We just won’t be able to hold winter back much longer.
As if we ever could!
Triumphant leaves sing out their brilliant and beatific swan songs.
Branches siphon out every hue in desperate races to beat the snow at its game.
They won’t be able to hold winter back much longer.
They just won’t be able to hold winter back much longer.
As if they ever could!
But winter’s grip—ah, that’s the thing—
Winter’s grip has no hold on spring.
Winter’s grip is frail.
Fingers wrap ‘round hot tea in hand; steam curls like a rolling river.
Eyes drink in autumnal splendor as the mind collects velvet memories for the plain days.
We can’t hold winter back—never!
We just can’t hold winter back—ever.
But then there’s spring.
Copyright M.R.Hyde 2011