It comes upon us, as reflections from
a mist-filled pond. The sun, as weak sounds come
from far-off fishermen, their oars in foam,
so this sun comes to us, who thank it some
for memories of all the fields it grew,
for brilliant days where shutters could stay loose,
those long lit days enabling to bring new
and better times than when weak storms confuse.
This Winter's Sun, this portrait of a Time
like lockets pressing air into its clasp
must to us be a beacon for the line
we walk, towards the Spring we long to grasp.
Our memory must bring us faith to earn
our pass to Spring through Winter's stormy churn.
(c) 2010 G.Robin Smith, all rights reserved