Winter.

You may think
That Winter is an end;
A bare stick framed in gray
Spare and smooth;
Caressed by cold winds
Murmuring hard words
The story complete.

Darkness hides subtle clues,
A wall becomes a gate
Heavy wood and rusty hinge
Hint at more to come;
Patience is a gift
And time a circle.

Here at winter’s dawn
Lies another book;
An unknown text,
Each word placed just so;
The lyrics of
The distant song
Of Spring.