the past

it's been a year of frost.
of cold
winds.
icy roads
and blue steel.
the dullness of the sky
the grey
bloom
of a melted sun,
always low.
tired.
word is that summer
will return.
a hopeful rumor,
perhaps.
we wait
on the park bench
in our long coats
and wait out
this strange weather.
sipping on our coffee,
remembering
the past.