why

every year misplaces dreams
sand that shifts
in the tireless wind of time

but it is the province
of winter mornings
to smell fresh

spring seems to answer
anticipation that crawled
out of a warm winter bed

still if infinite variety stales
so do rumpled summer days
in their comfortable litany

then it changes
on that first crisp
autumn morning

pages on the calendar
coming to an end
whisper regrets

soon the year is empty
an abandoned cave
cold empty fire pits

then we look back
and see
what might have been

thus bleak winter mornings
awaken from
troubled sleep

and call to us
in their crisp promise
to do better