Winter Days
vacant of emotions like an early morning parking lot
and sad like the color purple
Winter Days sigh after heavily breathing Their own fumes of blandness
and They relate only to pictures devoid of paint.
They think like ice and caramel
and hurt likes needles on a pine.

Winter Days never stop celebrating depression
as They fill Their unhappiness into the cracks on the sidewalks,
which causes falls and failures for travelers who
are unaware of Their sinister and sour traps.
Winter Days steal joy from children
and make arthritic bones groan and
They are not disturbed by this.
They claim Their suicide victims as certainly as
a passenger claims their luggage at the airport and
They take both the good and bad to the slaughter
indifferent to their readiness.

With ruthless tactics Winter Days are
at war with us
so we must call up the Infantry and
we must only soldier those who are prepared for victory—
we must win at all cost and conquer
Winter Days on Their own horizon.

For Winter Days are cruel and despise
joy of any brand—
Winter Days fear us not and They care not for us.
They seethe with hate for those who laugh or smile
while They are putting on Their performance
for They hope to instill in Their audience
feelings of gloom, doom, emptiness, and despair—
thus, They will not end Their production until They do so
and, because of this,
Winter Days expect a standing ovation
at Spring’s equinox.

We must not let Winter Days rob us of
our light and lightheartedness…
We must all reach out and snag some rays of sunshine
from the other side of the world
and stuff them deep down in our hearts
refusing to accept a gray grim fate
no matter how dark the clothes
Winter Days may dress Themselves in.

And, though, I cannot make You go away,
Winter Days,
I can ride the hungry waves of optimism
lapping against the bony shore of my humanity and
feast on synonyms in my
thesaurus for “happiness” and
live out the syllables no matter what
vocabulary words You
find in the dictionary to curse me with.
So, shout Your cold sentences
as loudly as You can, Winter Days,
but I will not listen.

For
long ago
I learned that
You are pitiful when mankind debates You—
You become weak at the knees and
You come undone and,
suddenly,
You lose the vote to another hint of hue.

Try if You must, Winter Days, but You will
not defeat us
for we are tough like raw meat
and determined like a tornado.
You underestimate us
for, though we might laugh-cry-laugh-cry,
we always laugh again
and again
as we find within ourselves
the thrills and ecstasies of knowing
blue and orange and yellow.

Lately, You’ve been raining drops of glassy frozen spikes,
Winter Days,
but You only washed out the cobwebs of our glee
because,
although You are a powerful foe,
we are mankind
and mankind is laminated to withstand You—
our spirit has an unquenchable thirst
that drinks in the complimentary colors
on the color wheel.

You cannot contain us nor consume us,
Winter Days,
for every season has a purpose and a plan
and the hands on a clock go full circle—
Time will put You back in a box
and place You in the attic
with mothballs and photographs that
will be recalled by us
until new summer loves are made…

You—Yes You—are
a viper and a vapor that is extinguished
with the first buttercup’s bloom…
Yes, You are destructible
for You are just a visitor passing through.
You cannot seduce me into Your bed
of misery and masochism….
For You—Yes You—
are here today, but, then forgotten at the morrow
because there is a mighty strength in us to persevere–
And, now, at last
I know You will hear Nature
say what She has to say to You:
The hour has come when You must bow out
and take the rejection…
For Mankind is expecting the
company of perfumed gardens and
butterflies making love with nectar…

But before You go, here are Our parting words:
A puzzle has many pieces but
is useless if the last piece is missing…
So, though, You influence Us in part
You are not the whole…
I feel pity for You in a way
but I knew Mankind would escape the
grip of Your sticky gloves…
For, after all,
We are a burning Human Kindred
And You—Yes You—are
Our kindling and Our wood,
which lights today
only to be ashes in the end…
For all along We knew to
be true what We had felt all along—
Life is change and to change is living
but at the queue for costume change
We will be adorned in elegant sequined flowing gowns
and black tuxedos with starched red bow-ties and cummerbunds
and you—yes you—
will be naked
and
We will have the last laugh
at your expense.