What town this is I think I know.
Its courthouse stands from long ago.
It will not mind me stopping here to watch its streets fill up with snow.
The icy air cuts through my clothes,
The northern wind so biting blows.
It gives my bones a sudden chill, and freezes me from head to toes.
Do winters hard and colder come?
I ask myself through bones grown numb.
Or is it just the passing years that make me feel so old and glum?
An old newspaper tells a tale
Of controversy and travail.
The same headlines come back again, just like ole Winter’s yearly gale.
An old man watches children race.
A tiny smile slits withered face.
The years are short from them to him; for now, they both still share this place.
The old man tugs his coat so tight,
And waits upon the changing light.
What moves him on I cannot say, but on he goes this dreary night.
The passing aches we sometimes feel,
Regardless whether false or real,
Will soon succumb to time itself, and in the end we die or heal.
What riles and angers us each day
Becomes a ghost when years hold sway.
What seems important to us now, as time moves on will soon decay.
For some, the freezing air will pass.
For others, this will be their last.
Whose time it is we never know, until the final wintry blast.
Sometimes I envy snow and ice.
To be unfeeling might be nice.
It’s Frost I envy most of all, but this poor tribute will suffice.
The courthouse stands and mocks my thought.
It gives no care to battles fought.
For no one won and no one lost, and all grew cold that once burned hot.
These frozen recollections sting.
The pendulum will always swing.
The barren landscape will not last, for life returns with coming Spring.
The town survives through freeze and thaw.
Its trees will bend, then stand up tall.
Its people, too, do just the same, and persevere throughout it all.
Gary Abernathy can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.