Written in winter.
Grey is the sky and
Grey the rain,
Grey the trees and ground.
In due course the winter came, and
though it’s every year the same
the bleakness past my
seems shocking and profound.
What power does this season hold
o’er me? Indeed, it settles in
and in my bones, and leaves me tired
But not my soul.
No, not my soul, for though the world be
dim and grey
and looks to always stay that way
I know that there will come a day
when I’ll be free—
upon the trees or in between,
Spring’s first new glimpse of