Winter

The ground in winter, bitter and frost laden.
As comforting as a corpse,
pale and rigid,
the husk of summer and the womb of spring. 

Winter entices and tortures,
When there's always a piece of you lost,
The burdening weight of the emptiness. 

Sometimes I see myself again,
The merriment of what I used to be,
Like the sun shining between the phantom grey clouds. 

The sun touching the earth in gentle lapses,
the tenderness, the feeling, 
the memory that makes tears free fall like April showers, thawing all. 

But it is still winter, and once the sun draws back from the earth, 
hiding its robust body behind a curtain of clouds,
the barren ground is colder...much colder than it was before.