Just before the power of winter
Start to release its chilly breath
And drop its tears of ice pellets
It was dense thickness of green and fresh
Ornamental shrubs, beautiful roses
Climbers, flowering bulbs and flourishing branches
The blossoming abodes of fragile birds
But now all I see is this frame
Work of unseen abrasive hands:
Bony trees with dried skins
With hairs shed laying around its foot
Mere skeletons, delicate and frail
Snatched ornaments, wrinkled waist
Where flew the shines
Where are the wrinkles from?
Who painted it white, the green leaves?
What a slippery path, I walked here before!
Who coat this road with this tender glass?
Where are the ducks that glide in this pool?
All I now see is a carpet of ice.
But reflecting on this I ask myself
Is this barrenness, unfruitfulness or sterility?
No! Life is in frames, just like seasons
Live each day expecting the best
But whatever comes, still live the best
Just as I am with my hands in gloves
Shh! My warmer is at home, run I must.
©Olutoyin Ogunmola, 05/12/08
Friday, 5/12/08 : around 1PM. I started reflecting on the windy, cold winter of Lancaster as I go to Project Management class by Steve Baron, and during the break in the class I started to write this poem. I wrote the last two verses on Wednesday, 10 December.
