Remembering the Seasons of My Soul

Old year passes,

Becoming yet another ghost,

Withered as leaves,

Crumbled, and carried aloft

By winter winds,

Too soon scattered

By the breezes of Time?

 

Is it truly spent,

Dead and long forgotten,

Living but in memory?

May not reflection

Call it from the grave,

Uncover the gain

Hold it fast

To live again?

 

How has its many waters

Blessed thee and me,

As sacred signs?

Will it, as muse, retain a power

For its having been,

And then no more?

 

What saints and angels

Sent my way,

Colored its day?

In sorrow,

Who came to hold my hand?

In joy,

Who shared my hearth?

Were there hugs, and smiles,

And laughter to tilt the scale of grief.

 

Can kisses and embraces be resurrected,

That fires of love be stoked

To warm and blaze anew?

Has my thanksgivings

Been recorded in the pyre,

Written in the embers now glowing

As tiger eyes flashing from the ash.

 

Years come, doomed , too soon to go,

But let them not hurry

To a crypt without a wake.

Drink the happy wine of memory,

Sip, as the seasons turn.

Contemplate and savor

The seasons of your soul.    

 

©2011  Joann Nelander