Who calls it Winter

Maybe not anyone

Maybe Winter ought be Wither

an unsettling in becoming undone

Through our adventure cycle we endure

So much unknown ready yet still unsure

We are not captains of our own journeys

until we’ve sailed far and long vast seas

Rejected perfection abandoned second looks

How fortunate the few among many

Who discover knowledge secreted in books

As vision grows blurred our steps grow slow

As thin petals yellow our music hums low

May your withering come easy

May your wisdom stay well hid

May your death pass swift and unexpected

like your brief illustrious lifetime did.