A Poem

Seasons

Texas' autumn echos in brevity
and your creativity burns like its leaves
now falling from up high
What if life were as brief or vague as a poem?
What if it were a book of poems where no continuity was required?
Yet, our desires are much too strong to find contentment in such lack of plot

Texas falls leave unanswered
whether I love or hate the winter here foreshadowed
Is the passion I feel now, the joy of change?
or the last embers of speech burning desperately as cold waits to overwhelm?
Does autum become someone better?
or only mark the yearly farewell of the summer sun,
Dark days are ahead
Perhaps they are sweet nonetheless
for winters past were only survived by dreams of warmth
the warmth of the supposed 'we'.
A desperate hope, bitter in recent years, still realized in this word . . .

Cliche words of faith always much to cheap to palliate
The hollow thoughts of future where faith seemed false
Despite this legacy of doubt, One swept you into this all-too-familiar place
. . . . and I'm healed
When December's cold slips unwanted fingers beneath my clothes
even should it find way into my bed,
It no longer haunts me and taunts fail to disturb
I will sleep at ease,
for your warmth is real and no fleeting hope.

And for this maybe the seasons have ceased to change