At Braun’s Bay
~ Deetje J. Wildes
Winter killed affection like a blade:
Cut out the day from night, the warmth from cold,
My life from death, and left me with the shade,
The ice, the dead, and all the mist and mold.
In spring the months were here yet never here:
The thaw, the rain, the flowers, all had their day,
But I was living in another sphere
Where things are seen yet stay a glass away.
The days are numbered now into July:
The wear of winter is in full repair
And summer gives my soul, in halves, supply—
We’re getting there, like tortoise and the hare—
The intellect has raced all lean and small,
But oh, my turtle heart, it has to crawl.
~ Robert Klein Engler