Winter’s Plea

Wait until spring,
Thus goes my ritual of cleaning.
Time marches on,
Taking with it, life’s meaning.

Wait until spring,
Is my children’s request.
As if time will stand still
At their simple behest.

Wait until spring,
And then I’ll retire.
Ten years to go, then five
But time is often a liar.

Wait until spring,
Says the note in the attic
On a dusty old box,
So clear, precise, yet still enigmatic

Wait until spring
Echoes the words in my head.
Was it one from years past?
Or the one still ahead?

Wait until spring.
What if I’m tired of the waiting?
Right or wrong,
I sit here, debating.

Wait until spring,
I ignore the note’s plea,
Opening the box,
To find letters from me.

Memories long forgotten,
Faces I no longer see.
Time marches on,
Taking with it, what’s left of me

Wait until spring
With early March blossoms.
The sun rises and sets,
Years of plenty, then autumns.

When winter comes,
As often it will,
Taking sunshine and green,
Replacing busy with still.

Remember the best,
And hold your little ones close.
Let go of the busy, the bad—
Remembering what matters most.

Don’t wait until spring.