Last Breath of Winter

To a Passing Friend

Fog clings above refrozen snow
Crisp and sharp in morning glow.

Across the field stands naked trees;
Though it's shrouded mountains that I see.

Those rosy fingers spoken of by Homer,
Caress and remind of this coming summer.

A world not fully painted nor primed
Begins its rhythmic march in time:

From chirping birds and dark rich mud
To vernal ponds and bursting buds.

Yet before this fecundity may spring,
Apollo must burn this winter's sting,

And melt away those wintery tales
To nourish forests, fields, and vales.

Old man in your ruinous retreat,
I'll await the day when we next meet;

I won't forget you dearest friend,
But today your time is at an end.