As winter shuffles in and stomps its boots,
and autumn, fleeing, leaves the door agape,
we shiver - shocked - and faced with absolutes
we're driven past the moment of escape.
Past any promise that we could contrive,
we're hugging our poor bodies, robbed of heat-
forgetting that our hearts could have revived
if we had let our frosty fingers meet.
It's too late to save for later, pale and staid,
pristine, but only for our lack of nerve.
Leaves pressed between crisp pages always fade
and crumble in our yearning to preserve.
We've given up, too timid to crusade,
and wind goes whistling down the trench we made.
