Come, Winter, cradle me upon your breast
Beneath your shawl of softly folded wool;
I have grown weary of the year’s unrest;
Of wild ambitions I am overfull.
I have known Spring and loved her rooted gold;
I have loved Summer wrapped in pastel skies;
I have known Autumn, loved her gallant hold
On pageantry and color while she dies.
But Spring has roused my hoped beyond my strength,
And Summer’s heat has seared my feeble will;
I danced down Autumn’s path, its golden length;
And now I would my leaping heart were still.
I have grown weary of prismatic light
That lent ambition’s lamb a Golden Fleece
My heart has need of patient gray and white.
Come, Winter, wrap my weariness in peace.
“Weariness” by Eva Willes Wangsgaard was originally published in Down This Road and is reprinted here with the permission of the copyright holder (Mary Lynn Evans Hutchison. All rights reserved)