Winter's Gale

Winter's gale is icy and chill.
For summer's sun I do so yearn,

To feel the warm breeze by the window sill,
As I did before the leaves did turn.

So many things I do remember,
Contemplating before the last ember:

The little lambs that leapt and played,

The flower that blossomed when others did fade.

Yet a measure of beauty is in the snow,

Which covers my garden at the end of the year.

My precious plants slumber below,

Ready to waken when spring doth cheer.

Still, I shiver and fight a fear,

A fear of forgetting what I hold dear.

My hand quivers as I wipe a tear.

The end of this winter surely is near.

Tomorrow's spring will not be like before.
I know it will be bright and warm;
'Twill outshine the days of yore. 

And from it's beauty I'll ne'er be torn.

For the flower that blossomed this spring past
Bloomed all summer till touched by the frost,

Then wilted and withered--but its roots will last
In a new garden, ne'er to be lost.