winter is bad enough without

this isn't your season, my love;


(so very)


spring's hesitant promises
would suit you, perhaps:
their summer affirmation,
even their fulfillment in fall.


(thought maybe)


but winter chases breath from your lungs
and clutches tight against its return;
the snows hold captive even
movements of the stars
in ice-sheathed branches
that rend the clouds;
feather-born retreat
with dawn over their shoulders,
cutting above currents that
stop these flutter-tiny hearts


(tried, i)


you have no means to fly
before the chillblained night--

&i cannot even stand myself
against winds heavy with the press
of years of gelid words


(i'm sorry)


this just isn't our season, my love.