"He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature."
- John Keats, The Human Seasons

The city vanishes
slowly in the rearview mirror
as my headlights splinter
frozen darkness
of this December back road.
Above frost-filled pines, stars hover
as winter claims the landscape.
Tires drone against asphalt
keeping time with the caroling radio
while my thoughts hang from the edge
of a cold moon darting above the treeline.

I think how my seasons are structured
with so many summers now tucked away,
neatly folded like blankets in a chest
only used to keep warm when needed;
how spring has become drives to the city
on alternating weekends
and autumn a deconstructed sunset
slipping somewhere behind the cloud
of a cold goodbye.

As I look ahead the snow is blinding,
ice gathers on every curve
winding through the night.
Tears freeze in this weather.