The Mist
When winter’s gloom succumbs,
and grief melts in the sun,
warm currents on my breasts will stream,
and turn frosted tears to sunbeams…

Sadness moistens my brow like mist.
Silent tears coalesce upon my cheeks.
Petrified by the cold of winter,
forgotten by the spring thaw,
I shiver and feel lost
in this the season of my sorrow.
Loss has embraced me more than
once, yet it has never seized me.
Hope has been my reclamation,
my emancipation,
from the bondage of despair.
Hope exists in the swelter
of summer and persists
as the leaves fall in November.
Hope thaws the snow of winter.
Hope does not forget.