The passing of winter is a tipping of scales
on the dawn after the longest night – when brightness
advances, and in the thought leads into spring,
a transparency in unchanged gloom and whiteness.
Each day is an argument with greater weight
though the wintry scene heed it not and unmoved,
the clock moves apace, the hour hand opens wider
at dusk, as if time’s power over darkness is proved.
Were proved in improving prospect of the light,
days tumbling into weeks, winter’s sharp teeth honed,
but brazen the sanguinity of the sun,
brighter, brighter the evening sky, to spring is toned.
The passing of a man is a tipping of scales
on the dawn after the longest night – but time
is no more, a flooding of light, or its absence
like winter without spring, in eternal clime.
