by Brooke Wolfe

Created on: April 10, 2009

Winter, how she bends
And summer, she sends a sky
Over the hedge to kill
The last remaining frost-speckle
Of cold, ice branches,
Dead for a season but not next.
This is my autobiography
Written in reverse. The death of
Happiness, which is
Sadness in reverse. Before the sunning
Of faces and places,
There will be familiar memory traces
Of swimming and singing
And taking tea with me under veranda's tree.
This is the death of winter
And the oncoming sun shrinks my blind eyes
So I shrink myself back to the season of snow
And rest with icicles, my friends, who melt
Into other seasons to be absorbed
By green.

Learn more about this author, Brooke Wolfe.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.