Winter

Often we refer to Winter

As cold, harsh, bitter; life - all - lost.

----- Covering all warmth and hope

With an insensitive wrap of frost.

But why don't we see it as

The time is given by Nature,

To self-reflect, introspect,

To seek our own true nature?

Not a time of desolation,

Nor a saturnine one.

But a time to revive the finicky threads

between one's own thoughts.

Isolation from the outside din,

To delve a little deeper.

Into the introvert soul,

That exists like a tree and its creeper.

One we try to hide from "the world outside"

---- And perhaps from ourselves too ----

Yet it lingers and haunts our mind

And directs everything we do.

To find in all common things

So much hidden depth,

That suddenly rouse in wintry dusks

And through the year have slept.