darkness wails in windswept winter
white with dust and frosted dew
broken branches, barely bother
scraping daytime from my shoe

winter falls and thus to springtime
footfalls tread on mildewed pass
blink an eye and summer’s sadly
dead and gone like sun-scorched grass

autumn’s awful, full of schooling
never learned the lessons well
falling for the futile blessing –
leaves once red, now brown, in hell

empty arms that wail, despairing
once were warm, now softly, sing
how a love once lay there telling
lies that winters lead to spring.


  1. Mary Quallo says:

    Bill, your poetry is wonderful. You paint vivid pictures with your words and reach into my soul and lay it bare. Keep writing Bill, I’m still reading. Mary

    1. You are too kind. Poetry is my 1st love (literally) but so few people read poetry, writing it only makes me sad.

  2. Mary Quallo says:

    Please don’t stop writing it. Those few of us that read it and appreciate it would be devastated to lose such a talented contemporary poet. Keep writing Bill, I’m still reading. Mary

  3. Seasons of life, well spoken from a passionate heart that felt both the joys of rain and the sadness of Winter’s bitter cold. Each season gives hope that tomorrow things will be better if not amazing just like Spring’s early visuals of rebirth. Thanks.

    1. Thank you for your thoughtful comment. This poem, in a lot of ways, is a true story.

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