Seasons

Past blew its frigid wind at me

And shut me in the cold

I opened hands to newer years

To fit into its mold

But hands that reach for what’s not there

Will seldom feel the same

When tucked for warmth into the years

That will not speak your name

Again I reached reluctant palm

To grasp ephemeral mist

But found this tear-drenched hand of mine

Was balled into a fist

Now drunk on rage I used that hand

To rap upon that door

To throw all those who meant me pain

To storms I felt before

But what I heard within those walls

Helped draw a list’ning ear

To hear the words of those who hurt

Conversing of their fear

With rage that sank to sympathy

I listened to them strain

To tell of all their inner angst

That left them none the same

I looked again upon my hand

Once clenched to end a fight

And see again the tears that fell

Now glist’ning in new light

I turned away now lost in thought

Prepared to face the cold

Prepared to thrust away the past,

Now broken from its mold

But as I turned to face alone

That barren, frozen place,

I felt a warm and gentle breeze

That breathed against my face

Alone, I walked toward this spring

Along that greening land

And found upon my open palm

Forgiveness in my hand.