by Steve King
© 2020 All rights reserved
And now is winter well begun,
every old hard dream.
Forgotten, that fair suite
that flew the distant airs of spring.
Morns, I chant the same old lies:
how each new increment of evening sun
promises of kindlier things to come;
how darkness is that salutary thing
where one might pause
and get forgetting done.
A new poem for Joy's 55
