The wind is howling through the trees,
And takes a few down to their knees.
It sounds as if the end of man
Has come, the downfall of our plans.
The gusts bring chill of winter, strong
To those who listen and who long
Its song, the chance to wipe the slate;
Yet it’s not time, nor is it date.
It’s Winter’s hymn; so seal your doors,
Pull out your comforter and store
Your summer clothes within the chest;
The goose goes south; hold to life, blessed.
The fire I’ve stoked, yes, come for tea.
We’ll speak a while of things to be;
Last leaves we’ll rake, then stow mistakes
Beneath each row of logs and make
A covenant this winter’s eve.
Let’s put away all that we grieve
And speak about those mountains climbed,
Yes, all the things we left behind
Us in the spring. Then let us bring
Our wreaths to lay and psalms to sing.
We’ll lay aside our soldier’s woes,
And with a whiskey warm our toes.
The winter can be warmed, you see.
Even the evergreens grow free.
We’ll bury brothers that we mourn,
And we’ll—together—ride the storm.
Soon spring shall come, the break of morn,
And we will live bit less forlorn.
Eric M. Vogt