Winter

One morning green buds peek out shyly
to see if they were too early for Spring,
but on noticing the neighbouring trees
were festooned with white, crimson and
pink blooms, burst forth with impatience,
understandably so after a long slumber
through a cold dark spell of suppression;
'tis time for renewal, 'tis time for new life,
each bud competing with its awoken sibling
to dress the tree with cool green leaves
in a verdant dance with the cool breeze
of the new season, drawing bees, birds
and butterflies, with their buzzing, trilling
and dainty flutter to the cherry blossoms

Yet in all these, Spring's wondrous glory,
I hesitate to rejoice, and for a moment
remember Winter's cold bold ambition,
its show of strength in naked branches
stretching out to the grey sky up above
while crystal clear icicles hang, dripping
threatening, yet pristinely pure, all shorn
of hypocrisy, unsullied, no coyish evasion;
sanitizing the land with a white virgin cloak
it signals its haughty intent to dominate
soon again; I thought of its freezing days
and strangely I yearn for the dignity of the
solitude, asceticism, and uncompromising
tenacity and peace that Winter gives me