Winter again, and I'm glad that the seasons
keep coming around and around.
I am glad that the heart, too, is seasonal,
that it loses its leaves in November,
holds trembling hands to the sky;
that it freezes and thaws and freezes,
running with water in autumn,
singing with birds in the spring.
It is ready now for darkness
and a night-sky splintered with stars,
for winds, wuthering its stony ramparts,
for fires in the halls within.
- Kerry Hardie