Ballad of a Weary Winter
The snowdrops are nodding in ivory bonnets
Lone robins composing their bleak winter sonnets
And I’m reassessing, tired of counting my blessings
My nail beds are throbbing with failed second guessing
Cold weather has chewed me, I’m spat out, confused
Left bruised as a Tuesday in Saturday shoes
Each storm left me battered, each young branch; it mattered
Clinging to Spring hope as last leaves lie scattered
Waiting for weekend or birthdays or Christmas
The lockets of hope on a tightening necklace
The cherries on cakes that keep everyone cheery
Summoning runners as old legs get weary
But on we keep plodding, proof of yesterday’s pudding
We’re something, we’re nothing and that’s our undoing
And in this bland circus, I seek out a crocus
A proud purple purpose to offer some focus
The spiders keep weaving, keep winding their bobbins
The thread it keeps coming. I should tell the Robin.
Shaking off winter is always a struggle but the first signs of early spring flowers does lift the spirits.
Nothing weary about the pace of this poem. It has a rhythm like you’re trudging towards something, with purpose that is perhaps undefined, but is forward motion nonetheless.