O Love, The Winter

O love, the winter calls me home,
To wear the blanket, warm and still;
O love, the idols of my heart,
Sit glist’ning on the windowsill —

Where once the summer flower bloomed,
Is now a field of cold and blank:
But past regret lies gratitude
For those whom I can never thank —

O love, the winter knows my name,
And know the place that I belong,
A chair beside a fire in
A cabin old, but middling strong –

Wherein awaits the chapter next,
That I must read as daylight dies;
O love, the winter calls me home,
To draw our lives in pictures ‘cross the skies

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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