Trees blossom in due season.

 

Today, I do not feel like November

I welcome this change.

 

This is He

that has walked through hailstones.

 

He that smiled

through a

numbing

November

hoping,

it will warm his heart.

 

He

with a pen

can cross any valley

or peak.

 

He knows this.

 

But

every winter

grips

and his temperature

slips.

 

His eyes become

headlights that battles

the mist.

 

Until.

 

The sun seeps

through his weary pores.

 

Until.

 

Spring sings

a song

He longed to hear.

 

Until.

 

Winter

became a distant voice

He no longer fears.