He Who Wanders

There lives a man in winter’s midst
With snowdrifts higher than barren
Trees and skies like frosted roads. The stars
Are veiled, the moon a memory,
And the sun a ghost beyond
Reach. In his cottage cold, the chimney crackles
Like a whisper
Against the howling wind. His bed
Is empty. His pantry too. And the dust
Has long since settled.

He wishes of summer,
But the lonely nights lengthen.
A storm builds more
And more. Gone are the meadows
Green and growing, and fallen
The verdant leaves. He misses

The songs of drunken halls
And the laughter that filled his cheeks,
The touch of a girl dressed in doting
And the hold of her gaze
Lingering. Wherever the shores

Of that fateful spring, the snows pile
Higher and higher. And through the skew
Of two iced windows, he sees nothing
Among the wintry streets. Time
Has taken all that was and buried it
In shades of white.
No trace. No murmur. No hope.