I am but a winter's child even conceived
when winter's nigh was near. I am but a
winter's child--thoughts deep and folding,
as drifts do gather growing and the wind
blows shear. Hard driven thoughts brow is
sometimes so soft like the falling of snow--
To bury or to blanket or to simply
put to bed. What DO winter thoughts do as
they rattle in a wise winter's child's head?
Do they gather and grow into soft cottonball
mows? Or do they separate and blow
adrift? But I can guarantee it all, when
the night is no longer tall, there's plenty
more for the winter's child to sift. And though
her world seems a hushed and puzzling mystery,
she knows the seasons, their reasons, all their
ancient history. Then alas, the days of deep
drifts and thinking will come that seem too
vast to number. And I am but a winter's child,
soon comes the time of dreams and wonder.
Meloo/Melissa A. Howells Copyright 2002
autobiographical in every sense of the word
