HEART'S WINTER

by

(For President Lyndon Baines Johnson)

Sometimes, a season in the climate of the heart,

Quite like the Winter of Siberian zones,

Benumbs the senses,

Congealing to the marrow of the bone;

And cold winds sweep across the heartscape,

Where joy-fields,

Shrouded in deepening snows of sorrow,

Lay fallow in the cold glare of a dead sun

Beneath the sombre balefulness

Of a shrieking asbestos sky!

And in rare moments when remembered warmth

Converges with icy streams of grief,

Despair is born,

Appearing like the pall of a billion sad tomorrows

Over the pain-ravaged,

Sorrow-matted meadows of the pining heart.

Death, among other things, harbingers such a season.

Much worse than death, is being hated without reason.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at An Interview with a Bishop
by: James Bredin
from: Toronto, ON, CA

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