As the frost settles into the earth
the echoes of summertime can be heard
through the swishing branches of the trees.
They whisper of forgotten yesterdays
and of distant, fading dreams.
Ghosts of the past linger here, and there
And try to hide
But the earth is so barren, so bare.
Cries of the lonely can be heard, too
mingling despair with fright
they shatter the silence
amidst blackest night.
Remnants slither and slink
reach with long fingers
into Summer’s sweet rose-pink,
but tangle in twigs of bony arms,
fall mangled on snow-topped rocks
with words caught in winter’s breath–
the winter silence mocks.
No one hears, except themselves.
In the deep of winter,
dead voices still moan,
frozen air still carries the sound
of haunting drone,
the melodies of days past–
of dreams finally buried underground—
still calling out from grave to beyond.