Life has no guarantee of quality or quantity.
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Icicles, inside and out, are chilled tears …
frozen in moments of time … heals heart tears.
Skeleton trees, already asleep, weep
with heavily laden hearts—make no peep.
Branches will break off never to wake, live;
hearts, shatter, without compassion to give
in ides of chilled tears.

Frost sucks all warmth from the air, ev'rywhere,
chills each body to the core ev'rywhere.
Birds, wise, flew, animals burrow down deep,
cows, llamas, horses cuddle up with sheep.
Limbs--old, new, fragile—are first to go though
there isn't any sap inside to flow …
in ides of chilled tears.

It's survival of the fit, hearty, genes
but winter leaves some weaklings … by all means.
Some relish rakings of a harsh winter,
pass over dangers, don't see dementors.
Graying hairs count the number of seasons
that one has had to ponder life's reason …
in ides of chilled tears.

Never soon enough, icicles trickle,
soft petals poke through to birth buds, wiggle.
Littered trails are gleaned, cleaned, gathered up, burn
without a second thought to dreams gone, turned.
It seems folly to thrive but one season
but all things have a purpose, reason …
in ides of chilled tears.