from the window i could see them running, 
they must have begun last night, 
but even for their swift flight the earth is large -
they were headed for the funeral pyre 
of old man winter.
night had been pushed along by day,
who'd known of the event for months.
storms must have crossed the expanse already 
and now their younger siblings ran to catch up 
with the help of the wind.
the small white clouds were the last to arrive.
all had bouquets of crocuses, 
fresh picked on the way,
that they hung in the budding branches,
and wind set them in motion,
to ring out the news.
sun was the host, smiling as is his custom,
and moon poured silver wine on the
brittle twigs at the base of the pyre,
and they all drank to the winter,
and warmed their bellies.
all except summer, who'd lost his old friend.
without the tart chill how would they know
how sweet warmth feels?
sun touched the death bed and it blazed.
winter would never come back.
they fell silent in watching the lively fire feed on cold life,
and their warm tears became glistening icicles.

spring 98

poetry