This far north, Winter
Comes like some uncle,
Dearly loved, but always too early
For supper, and staying into the

Small dark hours, full of tales of
Death and sadness,
And there you are, longing
For the break of Spring

Then Summer comes,
And you rush to embrace her
Like an old sweet regret,
Anxious not to screw things up this time,
And cling too tightly

Until finally, inevitably,
She slips away, again too soon.
And Winter says,
I told you this is how it would be.