by Marleena Litton
What is winter to you,
you, who finds comfort only in summer?
There is evidence of meeting where
there is true understanding, when indifference
is befriended, thus a stranger no more.
Trees bowing to wind, within days of
circling the sun, the rain kisses the
ever thirsty roots, of the forbidden,
of treasures kept: You, who I come for.
A long wait, for death, of search, in tilted clocks,
there I meet you in evidence that we live and
return for the same reason, on this earth.
Photo courtesy of Jason Ortego