Flocks fleeing south, trees retreating into themselves, nature's recoils, autumnal culling;
and I'm getting older all the time, from brown hair to black, from black to white;
the season's in me: my cold, crisp breath turned wet, coughing and wheezing into winter;
my grandpa is buried beside his wife in a plot outside LA, a graveyard without winters where the soil never freezes;
memento mori: remember that you will die;
winter winters through us all, don't winter your heart against it;
wrap yourself in quilts, sip your soup, snuggle up, hot cocoa's on its way;
hearts open what winter closes, I believe.
About the Creator
Tyler Clark (he/they)
I am a writer, poet, and cat parent from California. My short stories and poems have been published in a chaotic jumble of anthologies, collections, and magazines.
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Comments (1)
I love and feel the last line. And the image of your grandfather's plot really stood out to me for some reason. Stupendous work!