I dreamt I saw the falling snow
against a winter sky,
and where in spring the flowers bloomed,
the winter winds made die.


Tree tops, white; across the way,
upon rolling hills too far to see,
yet concealed within, their shadows stayed
like secrets kept from me.

I waved farewell to the parting east,
of the dying suns and of home.
Would rather I dwell in these familiar grounds
or awake and live on alone?

But every season must leave another,
and another, still yet one more.
So too at last, her Christmas past,
I knew ten years before.

Too cold to venture the woods edge I thought,
looking out through hill and plain.
Too long ago her setting sun—
too far, the winter rain.

©1986 David T Culver