The Winter of My Life - A Poem

 

The winter of my life,
how it blew in so subtly,
quietly, and deviously.

It took away, it drained away, it drove away, it sapped away—
the heat, the warmth, the burning desires
of many things, of most things.

Leaving empty, cold, the person I wanted to be,
or dreamed to be. Desired to be. Chose to be.

Cold dreams. Cold desires. Cold purposes.
Still there, still lingering. Whispering.
Calling to me, but my drive is gone.

Once I was a driven person,
now I am chauffeured,
a passenger in my own life.

I do not steer the wheel, it steers me.
I do not choose where I am going,
for I know where that road will end.
It was chosen for me.

I fight against it at times.
Sometimes I recover some of my heat,
my passions, limited, arise once more.

Warm they feel. Warm they seem.
Hypothermia can feel warm, they say.
I believe it to be true,
for my new beginnings always end… cold.

My soul remembers. It builds fires within.
My mind remembers. It stirs the embers.
My lips remember, say the words. Mean them.
My eyes remember, though they don’t see clearly anymore.
My hands are told they remember, but they fail in quality.
They are not strong anymore.

The winter of my life is everlasting, for now.
I keep moving so I do not freeze in place.
That only extends the winter evermore.

I do not envy the young, the springtime child,
for I know they are rushing towards winter,
and the chill that comes to all.

I envy not their passions,
or their energies,
or their drives,
or their capabilities.
Not even their potentials.

What I envy is their ignorance.
For their winter seems to them so very far away,
as once mine did,
seemingly only yesterday.

Only yesterday was a far season away.
Winter reminded me of it all—
the spring, the summer, and the fall.

Winter reminds me, gives me the memories,
shows me the way… leading to itself.

My winter was always there.
Waiting for me.

Copyright December 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved