I think it’s because I was born in winter,

and learnt to breathe with the fall of snow-

and watched the world bruise and splinter

before I knew how these things tend to go,

and so, distrustful of rebirth,

I’ve long disdained the spring-

I know, loss isn’t ever worth

the fleeting joy of bloom-

that is, until I braved the brute of hope,

and let every second unfurl like petals stained with dew,

and learnt that every grassy bit of slope

is kind enough to share its secrets with our mind to hold them true

for the times when we struggle to cope,

with the loss of sun and youth and all the things we thought we knew.