The Turning

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Winter Wind howls bitterly beyond
the glass barrier, separating me
from nature.

She threatens, she taunts,
“Spring will never find
her way here again.”

She lies. I know that.
Soon I will rake my hands through
clear water, scoop up tiny snails

and marvel at their form
before returning them to
tranquility.

Soon, Brother Sun will kiss
my dark head, even if Winter Wind
throws a tornadic fit, she is

always doomed to give way
to the turning, the forever
turning.

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