Snow clings to the tippy-tops of evergreens,
high on Cypress Island, where winter holds fast
in silent grasp. The slate-grey waves of Bellingham Channel
curl, then collapse, resigned to frost-veined cold.
At my temples, a dusting of grey—
Winter’s scouts arrive, their breath on the air,
its shadow drawing near.
The crows have been idle,
lurking at the corners of my sight,
leaving prints in soft places,
proof of some quiet passage.
Summer’s lease has long expired,
its gold pressed into memory’s keeping.
I stack my days like kindling,
holding the cold at bay—
but the wind whispers that time won’t wait.
Outside, the trees bear their weight in white,
patient beneath the shifting sky.
I press my fingers to my brow,
as if to smooth the years—
but time does not still, only settles.
My body tells its story—
each crease, each ache, each crumbling tooth,
a testament to what I’ve lived.
Like the trees that bear the snow,
I see the passage of seasons,
mirrored in the truth upon my skin.
Yet, I will not beg the frost to hasten,
nor summon the hush of an early dusk.
Winter may rest upon the boughs,
and my season will come in its rightful hour,
but now, I stand warm and weathered,
not yet ready to bow to the cold.