We had our first snow of the winter yesterday. As always there is something special about that first snow. Even though it causes chaos when traveling or trying to get to work, there is a solitude and sense of peace that comes with it as well. The earth seems to quieten somehow. All of the peripheral noise of the city is muffled by a blanket of white. The grassy side garden outside my screened-in porch is now covered with snow. Only a few blades of grass peep out above it. The only recognizable features are the trees and my bird feeder, which is empty moments after I fill it. I struggle to remember the beautiful flowers I had this past summer. It seems ages since the bluebells danced in my garden or the aroma of the roses wafted through the air. This poem is about not just the snow, but about how everything in life is only for a season. Whether we are lovers of snow or prefer the summer sun, it is only a season. Whether life if full of pleasure or seemingly unbearable pain, it is only a season.

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The fresh snow covers the hardened earth
    with its blanket of white.
Quietness overcomes noise.
Unheard stillness echoes loudly in my ears,
    raping my senses.
Small patches of brown, withered grass
    keeps its head above the blanket,
    peering only slightly higher.

“The snow will surely melt.
You may not see me, but I am still here.
It is only a season.”

Covered up, grappling, without strength,
    you try to keep your head above it all.
Scales fall from the eyes.

Truth is exposed.
Colour is lost.
Resiliency has died.
Your beauty has fade.
You become the grass.

Trampled beneath unsuspecting feet,
    you are invisible to the human eye.
Straining forward in one last attempt,
    your pleas fall on deafened ears.
Your voice becomes silenced with the snow.
Where are the children playing at your feet,
    the voice of the songbird, 
    the sound of the young lovers?

In summer, in your prime, you were admired.
Now there is no warmth to be found.
It is only a season.

Pregnant with dissipating hope,
    the next season will be better.
Winter turns to spring.

Rejuvenation and rebirth – the words only
    muttered, and never known.
Will this blanket suffocate you?
Or is it’s beauty – a mirage or a dream?
Black stands disguised in a cloak of white.

Tenderly, a baby is rocked to sleep.
The ivory blanket covers and slowly
    chokes life from its first breath.

How can you know when spring appears?
Will you then be sprung, or will you
    slumber in impatience?
Will colour and beauty again be realised?
Will darkness flee in a moment?
Like a man leaving only his footprints,
    you are left alone.
Unanswered questions, never known.

Is this life all there is,
    or is it, only
        a season?