But for you, sombre winter
when, excepting my quill ,
everything is slow moving,
fallen leaves like our fallen
moods lie as they are,
awaiting the fast blow
of the season’s strength
of the cold wind,
but for you sombre winter,
my soothing lulled voice,
will it expand into the hum of
much awaited Sprightly Spring?
will my heart crave for those
humming birds visiting my lawn?
But for you sombre winter,
would my saddened heart
weave an aubade of spring?
will my curious hand weave
an aubade lingerie for
my grandchild of Spring?
Can I fill those empty
Papers of my writing pad
with flow of thoughts on Spring?
Oh! winter! You are great in your own way.
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