A poem by Rico Provasoli.
The brown death of winter.
A shroud over stark fields –
Birds peck what they can.
The cold starry night is still
Men sit close to the fire
musing on their youth, their
spring, when nothing could
frighten or unsettle them.
But the darkest of nights
sometimes brings unwanted
memories a man has pushed
aside, into a closet of his mind.
He looks forward to the return
of light, hoping to evade thoughts
of mortality, the cessation of his days.
His dreams are still so unfulfilled –
He turns away from his shadow,
filling the winter night
with bright lights and drink and crowds –
anything to avoid his personal dark.
Yet not all men forsake the invitation
to look closely at what others shun.
There may in fact be treasure
in the dark, a jewel of understanding.
So hurry not, dear friends, to hide
from the winter night –
for the unexamined dark is wasted
when the opportunity is declined.
Featured image by Allan Forest
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