(Winter) Poet

The winter --
there is no quick cure for it.
A singular event, drawn out
and as mortality has its way
no guarantee to see the next.

Embrace it, this once
as you beckon the “common thought”
that floats above you.
You are still young, Winter Poet.

But lo!
If you raise your sails --
be prepared to move.
(the wind will incite your command)

I myself have lasted long enough,
to laugh long enough.
Though the foam and the roll
have tilted me --
there has been enough joy in their experience.

For divinity losses not its order
if it thrusts us back
to the womb.
I should see the winter, again
for the first time.