A cold wind plucks at my hair
And tugs on my sleeve
Beseeching me to release
Autumn's gentle grasp
And embrace Winter with a kiss.

It whispers to me to remove
The intense colors of Autumn's design
To unclasp my necklace of gold willow fronds
To shed my sweater knit
Of orange maple leaves
And to let my hair change
From curls of crimson fire
To a straight mane of white and grey.

Wouldn't I like better, it asks,
To grace my slender wrists
With silvery ice filigree
And don a warm gown
Of evergreen needles?
Wouldn't I prefer my eyes
To be a frigid blue
Instead of a rich mahogany?

And while I love Autumn
The idea of Winter entices me so.
Should I turn my back
On faithful Autumn
With his voice of rustling leaves
and cool touch
To welcome the death and magic
Of Winter?

The answer is painfully evident
For I know if I do not
Let part of me die in Winter's arms
It cannot be reborn
By Spring's song.