Waiting for Winter's End

     My nephew once asked me if all of my poems were about old people. A lot of them are, both because of my work as a home health attendant (most of our clients happen to be old) and because of a life long love of old people (which means I should love myself more every year). Happily, this poem is not about old people, except by implications the reader probably won't pick up, about the latter stage of life.  Without my poetry class for critique, I'm not sure how to express the double meaning without sticking it in the intro as I have done here, which is the equivalent of having to explain a punchline.

Waiting for Winter's End

What is the song of waiting for winter's end

when the last notes of carols fade and fall

into the snow that covers all?

For snow will cover all.

What is the shade of waiting for winter's end

when the sun, by clouds is dispossessed,

and twinkling strands are laid to rest?

For all are laid to rest.

What is the sound of waiting for winter's end

when winds moan like wails of a widow's heart

who from her love is torn apart?

For in the end, we part.

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When the joys that ornament our days

are packed into boxes and stored away

what is the hope that sustains us then

as we wait for winter's end?