A Song of Midwinter

The Memory of that winter

Sometimes everything felt like my fault,and that winter felt even colder.
Still, winter was somehow beautiful.

That midwinter, in the narrow alley,
a high half-moon followed me,
whispering that I would be alright.

Early morning, carrying my paint box,
falling down on the frozen ground,
that day was lonely and bitterly cold.

My new pink gloves I bought,
the angora wool half pulled out,
turned grey and dirty.

By evening, back home,
I cried quietly on my own.
Those gloves felt just like my youth.

Exams and life both frozen still—
would spring ever come to me?
It was a long, sad, and cold winter.

Was it beautiful because I had a dream?
Was it warm because I loved that dream?

That winter, somehow, I miss it now.

*these are my own paintings*