An Indomitable Grace

In gray, cold morning
eyes that would rather sleep
overtake them a little longer,
I awake to sounds of water
and muted voices from
the other side of the door.
For though in all romance,
in the turning of the globe,
I would have each morning
more glorious still,
but in slow consciousness
I become aware of cold cold colors,
of the trees wherein soon no brilliant hue
will be found, save in
those relentlessly celebrating trees,
giving hope in the midst
of the short cold days
as we forget what used to be alive,
and as snow falls its first flakes,
I remember your promise
is not too far off in the waiting.