I could not rest in the chill of Winter’s past
So I rose to seek warmth in memories fled
After our last conversation my head kept
Spinning for two disoriented days
I’d always joked that her sense of timing was poor
So she expertly proved my conviction once more
A half past midnight call with earnestness and calm
Intent with a dialogue of enchanting words
An unexpected message misplaced in time
The words came across the wires like whispers in ether
Brimming with affection and strangely meditated
“It wasn’t you, it was about me you must know that,
You were a good husband, you always supported me.”
“You always provided, I couldn’t have asked for more.
You are still my best friend as you have always been.”
Clichés are cold to the point like the nature of snow
But snow can also hold warmth, keep you alive.
I once lived in an ancient building made of stone.
Its massive granite walls were cold inside and out
And its stout halls were cold inside and out,
They were no barrier to the seeping persistent cold.
Solid walls lack empty voids of shifting snow drifts.
They lack the ironic ability of snow to hold warmth
In the same manner a cliché can offer ephemeral comfort,
Displacing guilt and regret for brief moments before the thaw
And leaving nothing left but bemoaned droplets of hope
That yearns for fullfilment at the coming of Spring.
There is also irony in the passing midnight conversation
That closes a circle opened with vows and a pair of rings.