ODE TO WINTER'S WORD
Were I mute, my pen would remain,
And my thoughts burst forth,
A folly of fireflies on an invisible skyline.
Were I deaf, old friend,
I'd endeavor to improvise like
An auctioneer of ideas both rarefied and asinine.
Were I blind, dear child within,
On you I would rely,
To ramble with elegant grace most Florentine.
Were I old, when once young,
I'd ask for humor,
To traverse the path both dulcet and serpentine.
Were I mortal and not divine,
I'd realize it's not a question of epiphany,
But rather the elusive patience to realign.
—G. B. Congdon
22nd February 2020
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