I Forget in Winter

In the primacy of solitude, alone everywhere,
I forget how youth felt, I forget what was there.
No more the high blue sky, but only the ground;
No more colors of rainbows, but just a dull brown.

Tree branches are cracks in a lead-colored sky,
The days drag in their grayness and slowly plod by,
And I can't remember, my mind dry and sere,
The why or the whereof, of life much more dear.

The pen of the bard wrote winter's discontent;
It's true-the mind without color becomes withered and bent,
As it trudges through the rooms of its life in the cold,
And reaches the door forgetfully, senile and old.

Oh, but Spring comes with her flowers and bows,
And the mind remembers and lovingly knows
The familiar, God's presence, His gifts and His love,
Remembering and mindfulness now hand in glove.

As beauty and memory are one and the same,
Perhaps, just perhaps, I am not halt and lame,
But one with the universe, one with the earth,
One with all laughter, and love without dearth.

One with the hawk and one with the sparrow,
Bones hard again, straight again, filled with tough marrow,
Eyes bright again, delighting in sound and in sight,
Heart strong again, God-loved again, far from the night.

©Phil Hodgkins 2002

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