Winter hangs on like an old beggar.
From one moment to another
time passes untouched.
It is the curious pain of nothing.
It is neither dead nor alive.
Only the hand of something gone,
dissolved, forgotten.
In its youth winter is a princess,
eyes full of kites flying in the snow.
The spring of stars
in a cascade of indescribable flowers
opening and closing
on our new beginnings.
I put my heart in its hands
and tell it,
Thank you.
I have not forgotten,
I will recite your poems over and over
and ask magnificence
to anoint you with its glory,
to be forever what you are
and meant to be.