My Past Winters Lost

By Andrew R. Duckworth

The Winter was a wonder,
Even in the dry dead,
The leaves covering the ground,
Not one covering the trees
Dancing naked in the breeze
Under a blanket of gray.
That is an old photograph now,
Slowly fading over time;
A still image, little life left.
And then there were the days
Walking to the tune
Of high notes and low notes
Slowly grazed by careful fingers
Across the piano
With the snow flowing
In delicate waves
Blanketing the ground.
A still image, little life left.
But that tune plays in my mind
And won’t leave.
I welcome it in to stay a while,
Make itself warm.
Some day, that tune
Will be all that is left
Of past Winters.
But, for now,
It recalls the old stories,
Old imagery of a world
I was too innocent,
Too naive to realize
Was not perfect.